


Crepusculum Deorum

by LadyRosa



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Gods & Goddesses, Blood and Injury, Blood and Violence, Consent is the Key to Happiness, Established Relationship, Explicit Sexual Content, First Kiss, First Time, Fluff and Smut, Getting Together, Loki Does What He Wants, M/M, Magic, Mentions of an orgy, Multi, Reincarnation, Ritual Sex, Rituals, Shameless Smut, Stephen Strange Needs a Hug, Stephen is a Shy Boy, Switching, Threesome - M/M/M, Tony Stark Does What He Wants, mentions of torture, some horror elements
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-11-06
Updated: 2020-05-12
Packaged: 2021-01-24 04:21:00
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 30,807
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21332182
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyRosa/pseuds/LadyRosa
Summary: Serving in the God of Fire's temple is a dream come true for Stephen. His devotion and faith in his God is well met by his fellow initiates and Priests and he is content in his servitude. Little did he know that a blessing from the God he worships will change things forever.From rituals to accidents, Stephen endures it all until he comes face-to-face with the very God he holds in high regard and respect. Things are about to getinteresting.*** ON HIATUS ***
Relationships: Loki/Stephen Strange, Loki/Tony Stark, Loki/Tony Stark/Stephen Strange, Tony Stark/Stephen Strange
Comments: 95
Kudos: 197





	1. Prologue

* * *

* * *

**Prologue **

* * *

Chaos is everywhere, the sounds of weapons clashing against each other, the metal of the blades against their brothers.

The damned cry out. 

The defeated whispers of would-be heroes. 

The crimson red of the ground. 

_ One final foe. _

** _One final swing._ **

In the middle of a huge battlefield where war has been consistent for years, a lone soldier stands in the midst of all the blood and gore and the fallen bodies of both his comrades and enemies. 

He stands as the last remaining suit of armour for his country and he is near death. All alone and with no one to turn to he whispers a prayer to whoever might listen to him.

He prays that his sacrifice will be appreciated by the Gods...

… for his cherished country to see tomorrow with hope...

… for his last swing to not be in vain.

A few more moments pass by with his lifeblood slowly flowing out of him before he senses a presence. 

Clad in an ivory white outfit befitting of someone holy the Saint stands beside him unseen by all but the Soldier who feels his presence. With one last look upon the heavenly face, the Soldier lets himself fall into the ethereal warmth of his saviour and is finally at peace.

The Saint will not abide by this soul’s passing. 

He feels something hidden within the heart of the soldier and he wants to let it grow, let it reach its full potential. There’s a familiarity in this soul - like something out of a dream. But he knows he did not dream it. This soul rings with the familiarity of a prophecy he once read, he is sure; a prophecy uttered in quiet since time immemorable, sequestered away in the Sacred Library. A prophecy that he, along with his dear old friend had read and discussed once upon a time. 

_ Is he being selfish? _

A question his old friend had once asked him.

A question that will not be answered.

The Saint brings the Soldier to the Old Gods, pleading for his soul to ascend.

The Old Gods may be merciful but never without cost. They know not the boundaries of good and evil. There are those who try to ask for favours without suitable exchange and the Old Gods inflict their payment one way or another.

So the Old Gods agree to refine the soul of the soldier, to create a divine body for him… at the cost of the Saint's life.

The Saint is an old soul now and with the slightest regret of no longer being able to see his old friend, he accepts the cost, so long as the Soldier would be ascended.

The Old Gods pull out the Saint's life force, binding it within the soldier's lost soul and newly divine body.

And as the Saint fades away, he is promised a new life.

In his heart, he hopes. 

He prays that if the Fates are kind, he will see the Soldier once again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with a header made by the lovely [Maya](https://twitter.com/Nobel_Kween/status/1239176362935476229?s=09)! Thank you so much!


	2. The Call of the Fates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> where Stephen meets the Fates and learns which God he should serve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter has been beta'ed by the lovely [Luca](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction). Without her, I would be drowning in chaotic storytelling. 
> 
> ** On to the first chapter! **

* * *

**   
  
**

* * *

History has long been filled with war and strife until the long-awaited blanket of peace draped over the land. Historians speak of an army that allowed this peace to reign while religious scholars argue that it was the intervention of the Old Gods that gave the mortals their well-deserved rest. 

Nevertheless, peace is a gift that no one would deny. So they start building new cities, homes for people to live in, temples to worship the Gods and libraries to record historical events in preservation efforts.

The town of York is a place of disciplined beauty, the shimmering waters of Mirror Lake surrounding it, a lake known for its purifying effects as stated by the healing Masters. Each residence in the lakeside town has a shrine dedicated to the God that they swear to worship until the end of time. 

Here they also pay their respects each day, with annual visitations to the nearest Temple of their chosen God. 

The lakeside town is full of rules and obligations that take years to perfect and its residents are the prime example of discipline and order. It is known to every traveller that whenever they are to pass by, the townspeople expect that their numerous rules to be respected and followed to the letter, lest they incur the wrath of the gods. 

\-- _ Excerpt from _ ‘ ** _The History of York: Journeyman's Travels_ **’

* * *

_ He dreams of a land scourged by war and fire, the cries of the damned and pleas for salvation. Reborn from the ashes of its suffering and now stands tall and unmoving like a stone wall as one community. _

_ He dreams of a creature, its colours bold and dramatic to lure its prey. With its golden eyes that resemble molten lava, it ignites the flames of passion in anyone. A creature of strength and ferocity that can match the destruction of whatever comes across its way. _

_ He dreams of heat, of fire that does not burn but spreads warmth and comfort. _

_ ...and he desires. _

_ Silver-grey eyes look at him, a barely-there smile set on a handsome face. All draped in loose ivory robes, the figure opens its mouth with its hand slowly reaching out to him, palm facing up: _

_ “Stephen.” _

Blue eyes blink open at the sound of birds chirping. Rising from his bed, Stephen slowly smiles at the sight of bluebirds perching on his windowsill, and glancing further out of his window, he sees that the day is a beautiful one, perfect for the ceremony that’s set to begin today. 

The clock in the house chimes once, short but deep. One of the messages that has been ingrained in the people of York to understand from an early age, this one Stephen has been expecting:

** _Prepare for the day with a healthy mind and soul. _ **

He stands up from his bed, making his way to the bathroom to freshen up and dress in a set of simple robes in pristine white to indicate the purity of self. He makes sure to groom himself thoroughly with no hair out of place and puts on his shoes. 

As he gathers his quick breakfast of bread and a cup of green tea that he allows to steep for a while, he quietly sits in his small but modest home, comfortably settled in his creaky wooden chair. 

Today is the day where he and the other 18-year-olds of York are brought to the Sacred Ground to find out not only which God they will devote their lives to, but also what their futures hold beyond that.

Stephen takes his cup of tea, sipping from it thoughtfully. He is not usually the ambitious type, preferring to keep to himself and work on his gardening and reading so many books after the first chime. It will be interesting what his destiny would be, to know what exactly it is the Fates have in store for him.

He takes his time finishing his breakfast, knowing he will need his strength and energy for the event. With the final sip of his tea, another bell, this time lighter in tone, chimes three times for the second time of the day. Another familiar message:

** _Assemble_ **. 

Stephen quickly cleans up, making sure set aside his dishes in their proper places before leaving his humble house and making his way to the Sacred Grounds. 

York is known for its markets and rightfully so. Stephen can hear the bustling of the vendors and customers, those who do not need to attend the ceremony. Most of York's structures are wooden and stable and the town itself gives off an old yet powerful atmosphere.

Residential houses, much like Stephen's, are on the eastern side of the town while its market district is on top of wooden docks that spread plank-like structures towards the water. 

Stephen bypasses everything, nodding respectfully to those who would greet him as he makes his way to the Sacred Ground quickly to avoid consequences. It is a special day for him and the others, after all.

Just at the exit of the town, he sees several barely clothed people, gathered amongst themselves to maintain warmth and Stephen's heart aches at the sight of them. Looking more like living skeletons than humans, their skin a sickly, ashen grey and their eyes dull, the soulless Unworthy are the bane of the strict world Stephen lives in. But instead of pulling away in disgust as the others would, Stephen only felt pity. 

"Be careful," his mother would whisper to him when he was but a mere toddler, holding his hand tightly as she carries his little sister in her other arm. "Those are the Unworthy."

Those who are unable to devote themselves to the right God or those who failed to live the path that the Fates have chosen for them, the Unworthy were tossed away from their homes and their names to live in the wild with nothing but their bodies and no path in this life or the next. 

Thinking about his mother and sister makes his heart clench in pain. Have they succumbed to the despair similar to these Godless people? 

The memory of strange masked men barging into his house in the middle of dinner cuts into his mind - of those same men ordering his father to restrain him, forcing him to watch as his mother and sister were dragged from their house. He vividly recalls the fear in his sister’s eyes as she was dragged away, her legs kicking out from under her and her shriek of pain as a hand grasped her hair firmly. He can still hear his mother merely accepting her fate, telling his father to take care of Stephen and for Stephen to be a good boy-

Shaking his head to stop his thoughts from going further, Stephen distracts himself by giving one of the Unworthy his coat, hoping that at least this person would be kept warm. 

Stephen turns to the path and walks further. There he spots a group of boys, seemingly close to his age, and he runs up to join them. The increase in numbers does not sway the others and they all amble steadily to their destination.

A few more minutes pass and the sight of a large obsidian rock with a crow symbol and a single word etched into it comes into view. It serves as a landmark for the Sacred Ground and something that little children are taught to stay away from. 

For initiates like Stephen? They simply pass through it and enter the Sacred Grounds with careful solemnity.

It reads: _ Destiny _

Stephen can’t help but find that fitting.

The Sacred Grounds is a large extension from the town of York that is a natural island surrounded by pieces of magically carved obsidian that depict crows in a dignified position with their heads up and facing the centre - where Stephen and his group is currently standing. 

"Welcome, young ones," an unknown voice unexpectedly speaks, loud and clear and Stephen immediately searches for the source of the voice, seeing a woman step out of the shadows with a serene smile on her face. 

Dressed in all white like them, the woman walks towards the centre, arms outstretched in acknowledgement before bowing ever so slightly. 

"My name is Brighid, the keeper of the Sacred Grounds," her bright brown eyes hold a welcoming look in them as she scans Stephen and his fellows. "Today is a very special day for all of you. The Fates smile down upon us as we welcome you, young ones, to the holy service to the Gods.

“Like the Old Gods who made a covenant to the Great Beyond, you shall now undertake the oaths of devotion for the Old Gods and your fated Divine,” Brighid smiles lightly before clapping once, the sound loud and echoing and the ground starts to shake slightly.

Before their very eyes, several stone pedestals appear behind the woman. It takes a few seconds for Stephen to see the objects on the top of the pedestals and seeing them properly almost takes his breath away. 

“The Seven Artifacts for Seven Divine Gods…” he murmurs to himself, his eyes widening at the sight. 

A silver-grey hammer that emits small sparks of lightning.

A jade-green lotus flower emitting a calming scent that surrounds them.

Crimson red feathers that flutter around a fiery stone.

An emerald green and gold swirled mask with black smoke darting around it mischievously. 

A blood-red key that seems to hold all the secrets of the world and beyond. 

A crown that looks heavy and whose azurite adornments glint under the sunlight.

A multi-coloured chunk of trigonal shaped metal that looks similar to a mountain, tall and steady.

Stephen’s eyes scan each glowing artifact with curiosity. His many books about the deities can hold only so much information and it barely satisfies his boyish delight in seeing the artifacts in person; the power behind each artifact obvious from the small distance that Stephen is standing. 

Brighid, still maintaining the small smile she has, sweeps her hands towards the pedestals. “Now that everything is presented, we shall commence the ritual,” She tells them. “Let the fates decide your destiny and bring you to the path of salvation for your soul.” 

Her smile turns dark, looking at them dangerously. “But beware: to not choose a God can lead to the destruction of your soul. Understood?”

There were murmurs among the others before a look from Brighid shut them up and they, along with Stephen, who did not even participate in their mutterings, all nod at the woman, whose smile turns cheerful once again. 

“Good,” she says before doing a series of complicated hand gestures and bright golden circles, large enough to fit one person, each appears before them. “Step inside the circle in front of you and wait for the Fates to inform you of your true destiny."

Wordlessly, Stephen takes a deep breath before stepping forward into the circle in front of him and seeing through his peripherals that the others have done the same, he closes his eyes.

It seems like an eternity but Stephen smells it first. The stench of sickeningly sweet iron, a vile scent that envelops Stephen’s senses and near suffocates him. The sight of bodies scattered on the ground, some mutilated beyond recognition. 

"Stephen." 

An unknown force pulls him forward and Stephen stumbles into another area that is pure darkness. He feels a presence behind him, something cold that makes him shiver slightly before there is a tap on his shoulder. He whirls around blindly to find a young girl, someone very familiar and the single candle in her hand illuminating her, giving Stephen enough light to see her clearly.

His eyes widen in both disbelief and shock.

"Donna," he whispers faintly at the sight of his younger sister standing before him, clad in a simple and long black robe, the ends brushing against the floor. Her brown hair is loose and limp, draping down the sides of her face and her blue eyes stare at him impassively. 

Before he can step closer to his sister, Stephen can suddenly feel another presence beside him and turns his head to see another familiar woman. Holding a torch in her hand and her crimson red robe that is in the similar style as Donna's - his mother.

Stephen starts to choke up, resisting the urge to sob at the sight of his long-gone family. He refuses to break down in front of them, to suddenly start griping about how they left him all alone because of their selfish decisions.

He simply stares at them, the trembling of his hands the only thing betraying his attempts at neutrality. Then they smile wide, their eyes so unnaturally dull that Stephen takes a step back in alarm. 

This is not his sister. 

Nor is the other one his mother. 

"Ah. You are quicker than the others," the not-Donna even speaks in her light voice but all it does now is to send a cold chill down his spine. "As expected from you."

"Indeed," his not-mother chuckles deeply, lifting her free hand to inspect it. "Though our appearances are quite interesting."

Stephen’s mouth twists in disgust, narrowing his eyes at them. "You are not my family," he says. “Who are you?”

There is a two second silence, the two entities glancing at each other as if they were silently conversing before not-Donna laughs, the sound frightening due to what seems like five voices laughing at once. "No, We are not," she agrees easily and steps closer to him, the light from her candle casting a sinister shadow over her face. "You can call me Níma."

"And I am Metríste," the being wearing his mother's face says. “We do seem to missing someone else.”

A growl suddenly shakes the Earth, almost making Stephen stumble backwards. The beings in front of him seem to not be bothered by it, rather they seem excited, judging by their grins. 

The temperature drops more and a lamp emerges from the darkness, followed by a creature that Stephen has never seen or read about before and the sight makes him tremble in fear. They appear as a tall and slender humanoid, wearing a headdress out of an unknown horned skull adorning their head, covering the entire top part of their head and numerous entwining branches that covers their lower body with dead flowers making up a train behind them. But that is not what scares Stephen. 

A large and horribly disfigured mouth with cracked and blackened lips grins at him eerily, revealing their sharpened teeth and the rest of their body is so thin that they look skeletal with black and red veins scattered all over their pale grey skin. 

They take a step forward towards him, black liquid pouring out of their still grinning mouth and Stephen stumbles backwards in fear, landing on his bottom and tries to scurry away but a hand stops him from going further.

“Now, now, Psalídi,” Metríste admonishes the being, patting Stephen on his head like he is a mere child. “Do not scare him away! We rarely get someone who does not beg for mercy."

“W-Who are you three?” Stephen whispers in agitation. 

“You mortals call us Fates,” the creature growls through their permanently grinning teeth, their lips only moving around it. "And unlike my sisters who have the penchant for mischief, I do not dabble in such. I prefer those who see me not as some comforting memory but as my real self.” 

As the being speaks, two skeletons saunter up to stand beside Psalídi, one at attention and the other draping themselves over Psalídi's shoulders lazily and the sight is so bizarrely frightening that Stephen can only stare at the beings in front of him, speechless.

Níma, the one wearing Donna's skin (the thought still making Stephen shudder) smiles at him. "Do stand up, Stephen. It is now time for us to determine your fate," she giggles as if the idea is something amusing to her. 

"Let us start," Psalídi hisses, "enough delays."

With the help of Metríste, Stephen hesitantly stands up, Níma dusting him off quickly before they both return to Psalídi. He watches the three look at each other before they simultaneously lift their sources of light. There is a rush of power circling Stephen before each Fate began to glow in heavenly power. 

"I am Níma, the Thread of Life. The One who sees each lifetime your soul has taken." Níma lifts both of her hands, making a circular movement before outstretching her arms towards Stephen. 

"_ A young man, but with a timeless soul. A sacrifice happened in the past that changed the entire world. For the better or worse? That will remain unseen for the past. _"

Beside Níma, the second Fate steps up, mimicking the movements that Níma did previously. "I am the one called Metríste, the Measure of Life. The One who sees the Truth of your soul."

"_ In this life, you are of loneliness and sadness. Both coexisting and blending with each other like two sides of a simple coin. Indecisiveness has struck those of your blood and you live in semi-seclusion from the world that may harm you further. _"

Psalídi steps forward, the skeletons beside them straightening up to flank them as they start to lift their grotesque hands and made the same movements as the others. "I am Psalídi, the Keeper of Destiny. The One who determines the path of which a soul shall take," their grinning mouth widens further eerily, "whether or not the soul does have said path."

There is silence and Stephen's heart begins to beat faster. Does he not have a destiny? Níma and Metríste do not look worried at all, still lifting their hands and chanting under their breaths.

It was then that Psalídi speaks:

"_ A choice you also have to make in this life can have an impact on not only yourself but those who will be close to your heart. You shall be facing so many trials but never forget that there will be a treasure that is more valuable than gold and silver. _"

Watching orbs of light with different colours appear above the heads of the Fates, Stephen sees it moving to hover over him. The young man makes sure that he remembers everything that the Fates told him. Especially his rather slightly ambiguous destiny.

He is cut off from his thoughts when the orbs above him starts glowing brighter and he has to shield his eyes from the glare. It takes a moment but he suddenly feels the ghost of the warmth that he has been experiencing in his dreams. 

Opening his eyes, he sees that he is before an altar, golden in colour that glints beautifully with the flames of the candles before it. 

"Ah. His Thread is bright," Níma says, catching Stephen's attention as he turns to see the three Fates standing beside him with Níma giggling, clutching onto Psalídi's long and spindly arm.

"Hush," Psalídi tells her, their ever grinning mouth seemingly softening before they all turn to Stephen, giving him their full attention.

"_ What comes usually in the colour of red, _

_ An emotion that is not just experienced in bed. _

_ Beware of the fire that is untamed, _

_ For it may bring damage to those unclaimed." _

Stephen frowns at the riddle that Psalídi tells him, forcing his brain to think of the God that they are referencing to and looks at the altar. 

A man with a strong body, wearing an elaborate armour from head to toe. His right hand is outstretched, a ball of golden fire hovering over his palm and Stephen's mind clicks. 

The Fates must have known by then that he realizes which God he is meant to serve because Níma smiles warmly at him.

"Stephen," Níma says, her eyes glinting as if she knows a secret that only she is privy to. "You'll be serving the God of Passion and Destruction. Take heed of our words and follow the path of your destiny with all your heart and fate."

"Make your way to the East and join the Fire Temple located at the bottom of the Mountain of Chaos. There you shall serve your God dutifully," Metríste tells him with a small nod. "Good luck, Stephen."

Stephen gives them a short bow before Psalídi snaps their fingers and he feels her power enveloping him.

The last thing he sees before the darkness is the three Fates turning towards the altar and bowing slowly to it. 

** _"The circle shall be complete."_ **

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Author's Note/s: **  
\- _ The laketown York is inspired by Riften, a location in Skyrim: the Elder Scrolls._
> 
> Hi! It's been a while. Real life has been kicking me in the ass and that's why I haven't been posting lately. But! No worries! I won't disappear for long time this time and will continue writing! Thank you for reading this chapter and as always, kudos and/comments is greatly appreciated! 
> 
> ** Edit: ** Now with a header made by the lovely [Maya](https://twitter.com/Nobel_Kween?s=09)!
> 
> See you in the next chapter!


	3. Blanket of Warmth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Warning: Slight mentions of injuries! **
> 
> This chapter has once again been beta'ed by the lovely [Foxglove_Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction)! Without her, I would be a mess and a half.
> 
> ** For something fun to do while reading: Comment the secret word hidden in this chapter! :D **
> 
> _ Onward to the chapter! _

* * *

**   
  
  
**

* * *

Following the rising sun to the Mountain of Chaos, there lies at the foot of the mountain, a four-century old golden spectacle. The Fire Temple is dedicated to Atrishoneus, the god of Passion and Destruction. 

Firm believers say that in his rage Atrishoneus brought down a devastating storm of fire and brimstone onto the lands and to warn others not to make the same mistakes, he selected a chosen individual to construct a place of prayer to receive his warnings. He was said to have been given visions, though what those visions were is a subject of some debate amidst those outside the temple itself.

Regardless, craftsmen and builders across the region dedicated ten years to building the temple. 

The temple itself is a feat of engineering genius. It is aligned with the rising and setting of the sun, with the early morning hours lighting important hallways within the building with precisely placed mirrors used to distribute natural light around the building. When the sun begins to set, ornate lanterns are lit around the temple ceremonially.

An everburning flame atop the temple is a beacon for miles around acting as a reminder to all whom the temple is dedicated to, and guides travellers in the night.

An artist’s rendition of the temple’s deity stands tall and proud on a golden pedestal which is the first thing one sees upon entering, at the foot of which is inscribed the Three Rules of Worship:

** _First: _ ** _ To honour thy god above all else is a must, ensuring faithfulness among the worshippers. _

** _Second: _ ** _ Respect all, living or dead. _

** _Third: _ ** _ Expression of Passion is the purest form of worship. _

_ The most vital rule of worship among all the rest and something that is kept close to the heart of any worshipper of the god of Passion. _  
  
The building also includes a spacious dining hall for communal meals of the priests, a large kitchen connected to a well-maintained garden where the priests grow their own vegetables, fruits and herbs for the meals that are made to sustain the priests after long hours of rituals and prayer.

\--_ Excerpt from ‘ _ ** _A History of the Temple of Fire: Journeyman’s Travels._ ** _ ’ _

* * *

For three years Stephen has been an apprentice in the Temple of Fire, learning the ways of worship of his god, knowing that he will soon be joining their ranks. 

Today is the culmination of that work for he and another fellow apprentice: their initiation into the status of Priest. 

"Do you pledge your life to Atrishoneus and Atrishoneus only?"

"I pledge my life."

"Do you swear to devote yourself to the teachings of our god?"

"I swear."

"Repeat these vows once again to receive the Blessing of our god."

Stephen kneels, casting his eyes down to the ground and bowing his head as he takes a deep breath. "I, Stephen, pledge my life in servitude to the god of Passion and Destruction. I swear to uphold my oath of devotion to the teachings of our god."

The fire that was flickering on the sides suddenly grew larger, burning more brightly as the High Priest raises his hands with his palms facing down. "Now you are truly one of us. I welcome you, Brother Stephen, into the Temple of Fire. May the Flame of Passion bless you as you devote yourself to the god."

The ceremony is short and solemn, and Stephen receives his new robes afterwards. A crimson red robe that opens mid-thigh, revealing his burgundy pants underneath. Additional layers cover his shoulders in orange and yellow that extend as long and flowing bell sleeves. A high collar covers his neck and a low hanging belt around his waist that has a red ruby jewel in the middle and finally, a red veil covers the lower half of the face.

The colours of his god.

His life after his initiation trickles down into the slow routine of the priests in the Temple. Everyday, after waking up at dawn, all priests are to assemble in the main hall for the Sermon of the High Priest.

Today as they all head down to the main hall from their quarters, Stephen fusses with his veil quietly. He is still trying to fix it properly while everyone takes their seats in the pews and the High Priest finally arrives, flanked by his second-in-command.

The High Priest is a middle-aged man with grey shoulder-length hair that is tied half-back. His robes are pure crimson with gold trimmings and a golden headpiece that depicts flames. His face is free from any veil, showing off a large white mark on his jaw that reaches his cheekbone and as he approaches the altar in the middle of the hall, he lifts his arms, palms facing up towards the ceiling and opens his mouth to speak.

“Today is a new day of dedication to our god, Atrishoneus,” he says in a resonant voice. “I had a dream - a vision. In it I walk through a thick fog towards a brightness that beckons me closer. The fog soon clears up and before me is a huge bonfire that is pure red in colour.

“I reach out to touch it and feel the passionate embrace of warmth instead of the familiar fires of destruction. A great sign from our god! So I say to my Brothers and Sisters the meaning of the ultimate devotion amongst our Order. For a time we shall set aside the Destruction that once embodied our god and focus on the passionate side of our eternal devotion."

The sermon continues on with Stephen paying avid attention to the words of the High Priest, absorbing everything until he can have his reading in the Grand Library, where the other scriptures lay.

After the ceremony, everyone files into the dining area for their first meal and the clergy all turn to the High Priest, who enters the room. They raise their right hand to press upon their chests in a gesture of respect and acknowledgement to another.

The High Priest returns the motion before everyone sits in their chairs and began to lightly converse with each other as they consume their food. 

Stephen focuses on his portion of well-spiced and herbed bread along with soup and rice pudding as those around him begin to initiate conversation with him. 

"Today's sermon was quite enlightening," the priestess sitting in front of Stephen speaks up after sipping from her glass of water. 

“Rumours say that he is a Blessed One,” the priest beside him responds. “And for the High Priest to receive visions? That is very rare of late.”

Stephen looks at the man. “Blessed One?” he asks curiously. 

“According to our scriptures, there is a prophecy where someone is blessed by Atrishoneus,” the priest explains, taking a spoonful of his soup. “Wreathed in the golden flames of rebirth and marked by the fire itself on his skin, our High Priest is truly loved by our god. His sermons and visions never fail to amaze me.” 

The conversation trails off after that as they focus on eating their breakfast. Stephen quickly finishes his own, excusing himself from the table before bringing his dishes to those who are assigned for clean up. 

Today Stephen receives the duty of cleaning the library with another priest named Wong. He had met the man on his first day in the Temple when Wong had shown him around. Despite his modulated tone of voice and often bored expression, the other man’s presence in the last three years has been a blessing and Stephen is proud to call him his friend. 

They meet up outside the doors of the library and they both start on opposite sides of the room, dusting the books and scrolls gently and arranging them properly. Stephen doesn’t try to initiate conversation and neither does Wong, both content with attending to their duties in companionable silence. 

It’s just before noon that they both finish cleaning up and with Wong volunteering to fetch their early meals from the kitchen, Stephen passes the time by browsing through the books, brushing his finger against the spines of the books idly before a certain book stands out among the golden lined ones. 

Curious, Stephen picks it off the shelf, noting the worn leather of its cover and the scent of vanilla flowers and almonds is noticeable the moment Stephen opens the book. Turning to face the sitting area of the library, he makes his way to one of the chairs and sits down, beginning to read the passages. 

** _S_**_e__e through the lies. _ He pauses in confusion for a moment at that, the words catching his attention and leaving him to focus in on the words intently. _ Know first that those with true power lie asleep, dormant and useless. The Olde gods who see with wrath and ignorance leave only ashes of what was once hope. _

** _A _ ** _ warning first before You go any further. The Olde gods bring woe to whomever gazes upon them wrong. Be clever, be submissive and act like a fool. Hide the pain in Your eyes or They will punish You merely for feeling loss. _

** _I_** _nscribe this into Your memory: Power comes from the Once Name of those with Power. Know that You are no longer powerless, new One. You who was blessed with the Breath of Life and whose strength grows with the passing of time. Like the fire that lives inside You, I hope that I can stay by Your side and support You in every step. Though You may journey down many paths, each will bring you to a beloved treasure. _

** _N_** _o one was bothered by His passing except I, who trembles with longing at the thought of Him. You came to Me in the aftermath of the destruction and while I bear the gravest loss, I see You. I want You to know that while I may be grief-stricken, I am not so blind as to overlook Your worth. _

** _T_** _h_ _e long night follows the day, and at the end of all ends, all shall fall into the turbulent evening sea where all will be tested. Again, this is a reassurance: even if the Ignorant One deigns to bring the world to its knees, never let fear conquer You even for a second. Trust in Yourself and as soon as the Dawn arrives, We shall all be reborn. _

A chill seems to pass through Stephen, making him shiver at the words. It seems as though it was written for a loved one but the way it’s phrased... Stephen almost feels uncomfortable. It feels like he is interrupting something. He turns the page, noticing how the new page has passages that are written in blood red ink and he traces his fingertips across the words, whispering quietly as he reads:

_ "When a sacrifice departeth from mortal domains, _

_ Heed mine words let not thy spirit wane. _

_ For thy God hath arisen, set for the pure to face, _

_ It shalt be a blessed one with thy bonds to embrace. _

_ To triumph or falter shall determine thine fate, _

_ Shalt thou receive blessings after thy wait?” _

The page is visibly torn and Stephen frowns because why would anything tear off something from such an old book? Is that somebody a member of the Order or has the book been damaged long before it arrived here?

His thoughts are cut off when he hears someone clear their throat, and Stephen looks up from the book to see Wong carrying a tray of their food. Stephen quickly closes the book, setting it aside as he helps his friend set down the tray on the table. He gathers his plate, placing it directly in front of him as Wong takes a seat on the chair at the opposite side of the table and both began to eat. 

“Do we have more tasks later?” Stephen asks conversationally after taking a bite. 

“Brother Mordo says that tonight is an ideal night for the cleansing,” Wong says.

Stephen pauses, looking at Wong in shock and his friend appears to share his displeasure, apparent in the way his mouth turns down at the corners as he looks at his meal quietly. The atmosphere between them turns slightly heavy and Stephen bites on his bottom lip nervously. 

“Wong? May I ask a question?”

His friend nods, looking up at him and Stephen glances around to see if they are really alone before he asks: “Is it really necessary for us to be conducting the cleansing?”

Wong sighs, letting go of his utensils and lowers his hands down to his lap. “It has been a long tradition here in the Temple of Fire, even before I came here. It is a task that our High Priest had shouldered, saying that none of the other… Temples would carry such a burden.” He looks slightly troubled the moment he says it and Stephen frowns at that. 

“You seem to disagree.”

Wong looks at him, a glint in his eyes silently answering Stephen’s unasked question. 

“We cannot go against the High Priest’s beliefs, Stephen,” Wong picks up his spoon once again. “His word is our god’s Word and we must accept that.” He returns to his meal and Stephen, now with more questions than answers, quietly finishes his own. 

* * *

The sun has fully set and Stephen stands with another priest beside a set of steel doors that leads to the underground basement of the Temple - a basement Stephen is as of yet forbidden to enter. The chilling wind makes him shiver even with all his layers and Stephen hides his hands in his sleeves to warm himself up. The priest beside him is also shivering visibly, his teeth chattering as he mutters to himself. Stephen makes it a point to ignore him, setting his eyes to the horizon. 

It takes a bit of time and the priest beside him is already cursing under his breath before the deep sound of a horn being blown makes everyone in the area stand on high alert. Not long after, a lumbering gigantic form comes into view. 

He is known by no other name but Lucian. Loyal to the High Priest, he is the captain of the guards that no one sees around the Temple’s main area because of his temperament. According to the priestesses (who apparently have more time to gossip around), he has beat every challenger who attempted to take his place and hung their weapons in some sort of collection wall. He usually stays with his minions in the basement, guarding whatever may be there and now…

...He is the shepherd to the lost flock of Unworthy. 

The sight is quite disturbing. A bunch of figures move at a snail’s pace and their arms hang uselessly down their sides, swinging as they move. To Stephen’s horror, those specific limbs seem to be sliced down to the muscle, preventing the Unworthy from even lifting their arms. 

The flock that Lucian is currently herding towards the Temple is small in number compared to the ones from his glimpse into this tradition two years ago. Stephen counts ten Unworthy people that are stumbling silently, their pace slow until Lucian aggressively roars, causing the Unworthy to move at a faster pace until they are all dropping onto their knees in front of the Temple. They still, their empty eyes staring forward with a hopelessness that Stephen knows will never leave. 

“Brothers and Sisters!” The ringing voice of the High Priest can be heard and Stephen glances back to see the man standing on the top of the stairs, his arms spread open as if he is welcoming their ‘visitors’. “Here standing before us, the Forsaken, the Unworthy. Those who choose to turn their backs to their gods! Despicable creatures!”

In response to that, the Unworthy do something that Stephen has never seen before. They begin wailing in despair, thrashing on the ground with their arms still swinging uselessly around. 

The priest beside Stephen curses quietly and Stephen bites on his lower lip to keep himself from doing the same. 

“I demand **silence**!” At the High Priest’s words, Lucian growls lowly at the Unworthy, raising his greatsword in the most threatening way and the Unworthy lower themselves more onto the ground. 

“Today is the start of our long awaited tradition,” the High Priest removes his headpiece, giving it to his right hand man. “We shall shed our restraint and allow ourselves to wash away the burden in our sacred ritual.” 

Confused at what the ritual really is, Stephen looks at the other priests, who all seem to be excited at the thought, whispering to themselves. 

“But first, we start with the creatures,” the High Priest points at the Unworthy, who are being forced to stand back up. “We shall rid the world of the Unwanted.” He places his hand over his heart, as if he is in pain, “even if it burdens us, it is our duty to the world. We are proud to do it.”

The others all begin to voice out their agreements and at the High Priest’s nod, Lucian herds the Unworthy through the steel doors that open from within. The Unworthy all begin to wail once again, the noise sharp and piercing through the cold air. 

Before the steel doors to the basement closes behind the Unworthy and Lucian, Stephen notices one of the Unworthy stopping, turning slowly until he meets his eyes. His mouth drops slightly when he sees the garb this particular Unworthy is wearing and the man’s lips move, black goo dripping from his mouth as he forms the words that freezes Stephen’s blood. 

Stephen gasps, reaching out before the doors close fully, stopping him from his tracks. He stands there, processing what he had just seen. That Unworthy-

“Brother Stephen,” he feels a hand clamp down on his shoulder and he almost jumps in surprise, quickly turning around to see the High Priest looking at him curiously. “Is there something wrong?”

"High Priest," Stephen bows low before straightening up. He glances back at the now closed steel doors before looking at the High Priest. “What will happen to the Unworthy?”

“Cleansing, Brother Stephen.” He answers simply but that made Stephen frown more. 

“Then after?”

The High Priest raises an eyebrow. "Brother Stephen, doubt is clouding your mind. Speak what you really want to say."

"Are you going to kill them?" Stephen blurts out and the High Priest’s gaze hardens. 

“We do not kill humans. We value life in this Temple.”

Stephen couldn’t help but think back to what the High Priest has called the Unworthy just mere moments ago and he opens his mouth to voice out his question but the older man beats him to it. 

"Brother Stephen," the High Priest's voice turns darker in tone as he glowers openly. "My word is law. I am assigning you to clean the main hall while you clear your mind of these tainted thoughts. As penance you will not be allowed to have your supper and morning meal. Make sure everything is perfect for tomorrow’s mass and if you are done before morning, kneel before the altar." 

Stephen bites his cheek to prevent himself from speaking out and instead, bows his head low in acceptance. 

“Mordo, lead him to the altar.”

The man standing behind Kaecilius bows his head and Stephen stifles a sigh and follows the other man into the main hall. He is directed to the cleaning supplies and after a few more stern words from Mordo, he begins to clean. 

Halfway through his task, Stephen’s hands are already starting to hurt and is feeling slightly hungry but he carries on. He is polishing the lanterns when the rest of the Order head down to the basement, wearing simple red robes that are unlike the usual uniform that they wear. Not spotting his friend amongst the others, Stephen returns to his duty, shining each individual lantern carefully before relighting them and replacing them back into their previous positions.

After scrubbing the floors into the perfect standard of cleanliness, replacing fresh flowers for the altar and polishing the mirrors, Stephen is already feeling every bit of exhaustion in his body. But he still has to kneel in penance, so he drags a cushion to the center and in front of the altar, kneeling on it before bowing his head. 

He prays quietly, clasping his trembling hands together to try and control himself from collapsing in exhaustion before he hears the shuffling of feet approaching him. He looks up to see Wong, carrying a small bundle in his hand, his brows slightly furrowed in worry. 

“W-”

His friend shakes his head, looking around before giving him the small bundle. “Something small enough to get from the kitchen,” Wong explains softly. “To keep your energy up. I cannot stay here for long so I will see you later today, Stephen.”

Stephen nods gratefully at his friend, who nods back before disappearing back into the stairs that lead to the dormitories. Unwrapping the bundle, he sighs at the sight of a small loaf of bread. But before he takes a bite, he hears another set of shuffling from behind him and he quickly wraps the bread with the cloth and tucks his hands and the bread into his large sleeves before turning around to see a hooded person approaching the altar. 

The person is wearing a slightly worn out cloak that protect their body from the cold and is holding a wooden cane, hobbling towards the altar before sitting on one of the pews nearest to Stephen. 

Ah, a worshipper of Atrishoneus. 

Stephen smiles warmly at the person, who seems to have noticed him and lifts their hood to reveal the gaunt face of an old man. He bows his head slightly to Stephen before turning back to the altar, looking at the statue of the god. Stephen scans the old man, worrying at his gaunt form and apparent frailty. He rises to his feet, pulling his hands and the bundled up bread from his sleeves and joining the old man on the pew. 

He removes the bread from the cloth once again, breaking into two parts, one bigger than the other and offers the bigger portion to the old man. “Here,” he says quietly. “You seem hungry.” 

The old man turns to him, surprise painting his features as he looks at the bread, at Stephen and once again, at the bread. “T-thank you, young man,” the old man reaches out and takes the bread from him and Stephen smiles. 

“You are very welcome.”

They eat their portions quietly, with Stephen noticing how the old man slowly eats his own. The poor man must have not been used to being treated this way. Stephen then softly initiates a small conversation, just to fill the silence. 

The old man seems to have very little to say but Stephen finds himself not bothered by it. Their conversation slowly shifts into the old man asking why he is kneeling in front of the altar.

“I questioned the High Priest. You did not witness the other parts of the punishment. Me kneeling is already a blessing.” He chuckles quietly and the old man hums in surprise. 

“Isn’t the punishment a little bit too severe?” The man asks quietly and Stephen lets out a small huff. 

“The High Priest’s word is law.” He says, rubbing his hands to try and allieviate the slight soreness from it. It is still slightly red but seems to be improving bit by bit. The old man hums once again.

“Let me.” The man reaches out with his wrinkled hands, palms up.

Stephen looks at the man, who smiles pleasantly before he sighs, placing his hands on top. Despite the seemingly fragile appearance of the old man, he seems to be exuding a sense of comfort that surrounds Stephen before he closes his eyes at the warm feeling that seems to surround him and before he realises it, he falls asleep. 

_ A candle flickers in the darkness and as he approaches it seems to fade away entirely. Lost without a source of light to guide him, he finds himself torn between standing still and moving forward. He knows if he progresses too far he risks getting lost, and yet if he stands still he won’t get anywhere at all. _

_ As he takes another step in the darkness, two golden candles flicker to life ahead of him. He sees nothing more than the flames of the candles, and yet he can feel the warmth surrounding him. Stepping forward once more he notices more lights flickering in the dark around him, surrounding him. It’s only then that he realizes that the lights ahead of him are too close together to be candles, and too steady to be open flames. _

_ The embers blink and he realizes they’re eyes, staring at him with great intensity from the darkness. He stops, just for a moment, before he finds himself reaching out with one hand, like a moth to a flame. He wants to touch and he feels a pressure hold onto him, _

_ The warmth is familiar. It reminds him of a feeling he had years ago, back when he was younger and still living in his long quiet family home. Nostalgia hits him and he unconsciously holds onto the hand on his, trying not to break down. _

_ He misses his home. _

_ He misses the feeling of being home. _

_ Arms wrap around him and he finds himself entirely swathed in warmth and comfort. A gentle pressure touches against the side of his face before a soft whisper fills his mind: _

_ “Wake up, Stephen.” _

He blinks his eyes open, frowning at the familiar softness of his bed and sees Wong sitting on a chair beside him.

“You are crazy,” his friend informs him, his eyebrow raising. “Falling asleep while kneeling? Are you a horse?”

“I’m doing fine, thank you, Wong,” Stephen says, his voice still a bit croaky from sleep. “And horses sleep standing up, not kneeling.” 

“Whatever,” Wong rolls his eyes openly. “You are lucky that the High Priest was in a good mood when he saw you asleep while kneeling. I had to carry you here with that old cloak. Where did you get it anyway?”

Stephen looks down at the cloak that is serving as his blanket, frowning as his mind tries to catch up with what Wong is saying. 

_ Wait... Kneeling? _

“You found me kneeling?” Stephen asks in disbelief and Wong sighs. 

“The High Priest did and when he called for me, I saw you kneeling in front of the altar with this cloak wrapped around you.” 

“What about the old man?” 

“What old man?” his friend looks at him strangely and Stephen shifts his gaze, looking back down at the old man’s cloak, holding it between his hands. 

He doesn’t know what happened but he can still clearly remember the comforting warmth he felt from the old man, how he moved from his position to sit down beside him on the pew. 

He knows it wasn’t some dream, but his questions only continued to grow in number without resolution as he thought on them. Stephen decided he will have to be content with the present for now as Wong drags him off to the Mass.  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holidays are over and it is time to get back into writing! I hope you all enjoyed this chapter! As always, feel free to leave kudos and/or comments! I love reading them and replying to them~ 
> 
> Thank you all for reading and I'll see you in the next chapter! *_ zooms off to eat mangos _*
> 
> ** Edit: ** Now with a header made by the lovely [Maya](https://twitter.com/Nobel_Kween?s=09)!


	4. The Ring of Fire

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has been beta'ed by [Foxglove_Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction)! Go and check out her works in the link. She's amazing and this chapter would have been a whole mess if it wasn't for her.
> 
> ** also, there's more secret words! Comment down if you manage to find it! **

* * *

* * *

There was once a man, who received a vision from the God of Fire to build a golden Temple dedicated to Him and to gather followers who will dedicate their lives into serving Him. This was the start of the reign of Obadiah, the first High Priest of the God of Fire and the one who had the legendary Temple of Fire built. 

It was a glorious age, until his untimely disappearance on the twenty-first anniversary of his Priesthood. 

He left behind naught but a vague note that said: "_ For riches and blessings are obtained through faithful means, our God brings forth a reward that one cannot resist. _” 

The first High Priest is said to have undergone a journey of enlightenment into the Mountain of Chaos and ascended into the Heavens, where he stands in his rightful place beside Atrishoneus, the God of Passion and Destruction. 

However, there could have been something more sinister hidden behind the disappearance of the High Priest. 

The mountain is rife with tales of dark creatures that suck the life out of living things, leaving the surroundings devoid of life, of snow that hides evidence of blood spilt, and of a large-scaled monster, whose venomous poison drips from its sharp fangs and the strength that is greater than a thousand soldiers. The very same monster that the High Priest may have fallen prey to.

Or so the legend goes. No one will ever know for the only one who can truly say what happened is long gone. 

\-- _ Excerpt from “ _ ** _A Priest of Fire”_ **

* * *

_Before him is a beautiful garden filled with white lilies. He is strolling through a path made of ivory, gently brushing his fingers along the soft blossoms. Even though he seems to be alone in the garden, he doesn’t feel lonely. He can feel the warmth that has become his constant companion in these dreams. _

_ A golden gazebo is at the end of the path, overlooking a large natural pool that leads into a drop. He stood inside the gazebo, holding onto one of the columns and looking out into the horizon that is eternally dark as night with glittering stars scattered across. _

_ “Who are you?” he whispers yet there is no audible answer. Only a gentle brush of reassurance against his cheek and he turns, looking into fiery amber eyes. _

It is the same dream at least twice every week. Stephen doesn’t mind, of course, but he can’t help but try to think of the reason why he is having such a dream. 

Is it a sign? 

A strange vision, perhaps? 

“Stephen.” Wong’s voice interrupts his thoughts and he turns to look at his friend, who raises an eyebrow at him. “You’ve been staring at the plant for a long time. Is it that interesting?”

Stephen quickly stands up, grabbing the basket filled with fresh herbs that he had been picking for breakfast. “Sorry,” Stephen tells Wong, smiling apologetically. “I was thinking.”

“I can tell.” Wong lifts his own basket into his arms and they made their way to the kitchen, where they are about to prepare the meals for the day. “You are getting distracted more often nowadays and you need to focus, today of all days.”

Stephen sighs, setting down the basket on a table before preparing the rest of the ingredients. He casts a glance at his friend, who immediately understands what he is trying to convey. 

“The dream.” Wong nods in understanding. 

The first time Stephen had the dream, he made it a point to tell Wong, wondering about the meaning of it. He had hoped that Wong might be able to help him understand the dream but to no avail. Wong did suggest that he consult the library but he hasn’t had the time to do so, given the upcoming festival and his additional duties of late pertaining to it. With him no longer just an initiate, he is tasked to be part of a fire dance performance along with a few others in the Order, and practicing for that between his usual duties has led to him having very little time to himself.

“I’ll go to the library after my tasks,” he tells Wong, who simply hums and they both return to their task when another priest comes into the kitchen to help them. After finally serving breakfast, Stephen goes to perform his duties in preparation for the Fire Festival. 

As a day that celebrates their god, there is much preparation to do, which means that the Fire Temple will be hosting the annual event on the grounds and will officially start with the Mass of the High Priest in the afternoon. 

Stephen’s task for the day is to clean the main hall with three other priests in preparation for the sacred mass. Entering the main hall, he notices one of the mirrors is in the wrong position and moves to correct it immediately, flooding the hall with light once again. 

He cleans up the altar, making sure to polish the altar and the golden statue of Atrishoneus. He replaces the old flowers on the pedestal with fresh ones, arranging them carefully so that the red blossoms look nice before stepping back to bow to the statue in respect. 

Slipping past the other priests, Stephen makes his way to the library, closing the door behind him before looking around, biting his lip in thought. He moves towards the books that might contain topics about dreams but pauses, his hand already raised towards a golden tome. He turns to look at the familiar worn out leather book beside the golden one and pulls it out instead. 

He opens the book carefully, smelling the scent of vanilla flowers and almonds that surrounds the book before turning the pages. Past the first pages that he already read, skipping the torn one before settling down to read the continuation of the author's unsettling words: 

** _I_ ** _ say to You, let the Olde ones burn Their own light while We await in the darkness. _

** _M_ ** _ y words may have been sharp and secret, yet now they are tarnished and broken by the fools. A thread that prevents the truth from being released plagues Me though I hold onto the fragile hope that there will be salvation and not destruction. _

** _O_ ** _ ut goes the light of My heart, stamped out with a sacrifice. I ask You, are You happy wherever You are? _

** _U_ ** _ nderstand this, They say to Me: those who are long gone cannot change the fate of this sinful world. Little did They know, that endlessly it shall form and reform around Time, that Their deeds as Olde Gods will no longer be the same and They will become dull. _

** _R_ ** _ espite is something that I do not have the privilege of experiencing during the darkness. I cannot wander or even lie down comfortably. In my loneliness, I lose myself as the shadows and grief surrounded Me. They who call Me distasteful, who is swathed in lies and chaos until My own words found no purchase and I am hidden from the world. _

** _N_ ** _ o, I did not offer myself to them. But the darkness has been a temptation that I cannot resist and I found Myself longing for daybreak, for warmth to comfort me. When My voice is taken, only ghosts accompany me in my seclusion. The cold wind that surrounds me is full of whispers, ominous predictions, and black smoke and I feel alone. _

Stephen finds himself wondering about who the writer is waiting for as he closes the book for now. The Priest feels a bit of empathy for the lonely soul of the one who wrote the book, though his desire to comfort them feels misplaced given the age of the book. 

The amount of time that has to have passed since it was written is hard to gauge, but clearly substantial given the condition the book is in, with its weathered papyrus pages, and faded leather. He returns carefully to its rightful place, slotting it in between the two golden tomes with careful respect to the book itself, not wanting to damage it further. 

“Brother Stephen!” A loud whisper of his name has him looking up in its direction to find a priestess peering through the library door. “The Holy Mass is about to start! Come quick!”

Stephen bows his head in acknowledgement, moving away from the bookshelf to follow the priestess, who has already ducked her head away from the door. A sudden chill behind him has him looking back and his eyes widens, seeing someone draped in a simple ivory white robe looking at the bookshelf, a hood covering their head and preventing Stephen from seeing their face. He is about to speak when the priestess begins urgently tugging on his sleeve.

When he turns back to the apparition, it is gone. 

* * *

The main hall is beautifully decorated with red and golden silks that hang in rows on the ceiling, just above the lanterns. The hall itself is packed with Atrishoneus' civilian worshippers, all sitting down in the pews as the rest of the Order stand along the periphery of the hall and the High Priest takes his place 

With his arms spread open in welcome, the High Priest smiles serenely before beginning his sermon.

“Greetings and welcome, fellow worshippers of our God,” he says in a loud and booming voice that easily carries over the hall. “I welcome you all to our God’s Temple, where his blessings have been abundant. Before this very mass, I was in deep prayer, hoping for a sign from our God and it was not long before I heard His voice in me, speaking in his deep voice that makes me tremble. 

“He appears before me, in His godly glory, intense and majestic. He comes dressed in gold brighter than the scorching sun, his eyes red as a crimson ruby. He moves in a way that proves that is powerful and robust and I bow low before Him.

“On your behalf, good worshippers, I ask Him what message he would have me speak to the rest of his followers, who wait for his sacred words. He says to me that today is a great day of celebration! That we should all be proud of how far we have come and that we must enjoy the festivities with a passionate embrace. Tonight shall be a blessed night indeed and we should celebrate with all manner of revelry. What say you all? Shall we celebrate tonight on behalf of our god?"

Voices raise in a chorus of resounding agreement.

“Then we must not let him down! Tonight we celebrate this momentous occasion! Tonight we indulge in His passion!” Another round of loud whooping agreements cascade through the enclosed room at that, and it is little more than a prelude to the raucous behaviours Stephen expects will unfold over the night.

As he admires the enthusiasm of the crowd around him, Stephen spots a little boy in the crowd who seems to be wincing. He stands beside an elderly woman, shifting from foot to foot in discomfort. Stephen expects that he is feeling uncomfortable about the people he is surrounded by shouting. 

The High Priest bows before the golden statue of Atrishoneus before moving to give way to the others as they approach the altar. With that cue Stephen, along with the other Priests, begin to move to their places, assisting the citizens as they start to set down offerings on the altar. 

Various objects in multiple shapes and sizes are slowly accumulating on the top of the altar as each person passes by and Stephen arranges each and every one of them carefully. He ignores the people who are praying and bowing their heads in front of the large statue of Atrishoneus. Another priest joins him as they greet and accept the offerings quietly and Stephen spots the little boy from a while ago approaching the altar. 

The child looks a bit too young to be visiting the Temple alone so Stephen assumes that he must have been visiting with his grandmother - the old lady from before, perhaps. He is carrying a bunch of white flowers, holding them tightly between his tiny hands. He walks towards the altar, gently putting the flowers on the top of the altar, right in front of Stephen. 

Before Stephen can greet the little boy, the priest beside Stephen scoffs at the flowers before swipes it off the altar with a barely concealed disgust. The little boy looks taken aback by the attitude, his eyes widening at the sight of his offering on the floor. Stephen shoots the priest with an irritated look before moving away from his place to slowly kneel on the floor in front of the boy, smiling at him gently as he picks up the flowers and hearing the boy gasp lightly. 

They are snowdrops, to Stephen’s amused surprise, which is an interesting choice for an offering but Stephen indulges the young boy, winking at him playfully before he sneaks the snowdrops with the rest of the flower offerings, its colour popping in between the reds of the roses, irises and chrysanthemums. 

“Sorry about him,” Stephen says to the young boy, removing his veil and tilting his head to the other priest, who seems unaware of what happened. “He is a meanie.” 

The young boy smiles, albeit a little shyly, and plays with the sleeves of his grey robes. “I don’t mind,” he admits and Stephen looks away from the boy briefly to look around to see if anyone seems prepared to approach them to take the boy away. 

“Where’s your grandmother?” he asks the boy. 

The boy looks at him curiously before replying with a soft, “I’m not with anyone. But I do have someone who’ll fetch me later,” the boy continues with a shy grin and Stephen moves to stand back up on his feet. 

He couldn’t just leave the boy alone, especially when there are a lot of people around. He bends down a little and offers his hand to the boy, his smile never leaving his face as he looks into the boy’s warm amber eyes.

The boy visibly brightens, taking his hand and Stephen brings him along to the celebration outside of the Temple, where the other priests are now setting up for the bonfire. The little boy looks to be content in holding Stephen’s hand, occasionally tugging him lightly to get his attention and ask questions. 

“What is the fire for?”

Stephen raises his eyes to look at the High Priest, who is murmuring amongst the other patrons, placing his hand on the top of their heads briefly to bless them, moving steadily to each and every person surrounding him. 

“The symbol of Atrishoneus, the god we worship,” Stephen answers the question quietly. “It represents the fire inside every living being. It also represents rebirth.”

“Rebirth?”

“The rebirth of the soul, but also of the land. The ashes that come after something is burned are often helpful in the growth of new crops. It’s a reminder that fire does not only end things but begins them anew. Besides that,” Stephen adds with a warm smile, “it allows us to survive through long, cold winters. It nourishes us by allowing us to cook our food. Fire is a force of life as much as it is a force of destruction.”

They both stand there in silence as they watch the High Priest light a torch, placing it on the large woodpile and it lights up, the flames burning high. Stephen sighs, closing his eyes as he bows his head in a short prayer of gratitude to Atrishoneus. 

_ I give thanks for the blessings that have been brought to us and those that we are yet to receive. May it be for the goodness of life and after. _

“Stephen!” 

Someone taps his shoulder and he turns to see Mordo standing behind him, his arms tucked into his sleeves and his face set in its usual controlled mask. “It is time for the dance.”

Stephen bows slightly to show that he understands and Mordo frowns at Stephen not wearing his veil and glances at the little boy next to him with a slightly confused expression before turning on his heel to leave them. 

"Dance?" The little boy seems to perk up, lightly tugging on Stephen’s sleeve. "Can I join?"

Stephen chuckles, petting the boy's head fondly. 

“Maybe when you are older.” 

If he is destined to be Atrishoneus’ worshipper, he thinks to himself quietly before guiding the little boy to Wong. The other priest scrunches his nose when he is given the task of looking after the kid for a while but does not outright complain so Stephen leaves them, smiling reassuringly at the boy before heading off to change into his dance outfit.

It is a simple red wrap with golden flame designs around his waist, long enough to preserve his dignity. Crimson red bracers lined with gold wrap his wrists and a golden collar covers his neck with a ruby at the center. 

It is the simplest that it can get and flexible enough that he can dance in it. He makes sure to wear his veil this time to complete the outfit, nodding his head at the others who would be dancing with him.

“Good luck and may the blessing of our God be with us all.” Nicodemus, one of his fellow dancers, tells them, handing Stephen his unlit fire knife before they took their swigs of alcohol in preparation for later, Stephen finding his cheeks uncomfortably full of the liquid. With the preparations taken care of, they all move to their positions in front of the bonfire. 

It is quiet now, any stray conversations fading away into the night air as drums beat replace the noise. Its slow beat is a familiar tune to Stephen and he takes a deep breath through his nose before turning halfway and reaching out to let the blade of his fire knife touch the bonfire, lighting it up. 

He steps forward, sweeping the fire knife back to front, swaying in place as the beat picks up. Reaching to his right, he lets the blade kiss on Nicodemus’, sharing the flame. 

He moves in time with the drum beats, touching the flame with his bare hand to ignite the other end of the fire blade, spinning it quickly as he transfers the knife from one hand to the other without missing a beat. Stephen can feel the heat from the flame, it being slightly uncomfortable but he endures it, letting the dance that he has practiced for weeks move his body in coordination with the other dancers. 

He whirls the fire blade quickly, the action forming a circle of fire in front of him and he kneels down and lets the fire kiss the line of oil placed on the ground beforehand, the flame travelling in two separate directions as the priestesses jumps through the small fire, twirling their fans with the tips alight with flames.

In sync with the other males, Stephen continues spinning his fire blade, tossing it up into the air and moving his body, running his right hand from his stomach to his chest, outstretching it up high above his head to catch the fire knife and breathing an inaudible sigh of relief when he manages to catch it in his hand, twirling it around a few more times as the women continue their alluring display. 

Sparks from the flames often fly out in every direction but Stephen dances around them, not minding the heat on his skin. It is unlike the comforting warmth that he is used to in his dreams but he endures, knowing that he does not want to disappoint anyone, especially since this is a dance dedicated to their God. 

The performance ends with Stephen and Nicodemus forcibly spitting out the alcohol towards the fire knife, sending a stream of flame up into the air on opposite sides, the women curtseying before forming a line and bowing simultaneously as their audience gives a round of applause and whistles of appreciation. 

Stephen and the others join the crowd, bowing as the people praise their performance. Stephen accepts the praises with a small nod of his head, smiling while trying to look for Wong. It wasn’t long before he sees his friend, standing slightly away from the crowd, his face in its usual calmness. 

He makes his way to his friend, frowning slightly when he sees him alone. 

“Where’s the little boy?” He asks him and Wong shrugs, much to Stephen’s disbelief. 

“He was dragged away by a friend of his,” Wong defends himself. “Good job on the dance by the way. Quite a blazing performance.”

Stephen shoots Wong an incredulous look, thanking him nevertheless before quickly scanning the surroundings, trying to catch a glimpse of the child and spots him standing beside another under one of the outdoor lanterns, whispering excitedly to each other as many of the other groups of children seem to be. They notice him looking at them and the boy smiles brightly, lighting his face like the sun and the boy beside him turns to look at Stephen.

He manages to catch a glimpse of emerald green eyes that seem to glow before the lantern behind them flicker and goes out completely, plunging their area into darkness. Before Stephen could even take a step towards them, the lantern lights up once more and the two children are gone. 

Before he can even gather his thoughts about what just happened, he hears his name being called and he turns to see the High Priest himself standing before him and Wong. Stephen quickly raises his right hand over his heart and bows respectfully before straightening himself. 

“High Priest,” he greets, keeping his voice neutral. “Did you need something?”

“Perhaps.” Grey eyes rake over Stephen’s body up and down slowly, seemingly inspecting him. “Brother Stephen, your dance is quite entrancing.” 

Stephen blinks slowly at how rough the older man’s voice is and he shifted slightly on his feet. “Thank you, High Priest. We all worked hard on it.”

“I know.” The High Priest begins circling him, continuing his inspection and Stephen resists the urge to raise his arms to cover his bare chest. 

“Brother Wong, have you told Brother Stephen about our most sacred ritual?” The High Priest looks at Wong, whose eyes widened in surprise - and an odd look that Stephen wonders briefly about… fear? - before his passive mask is put back into place. 

“No, High Priest,” Wong admits, his voice still loud and clear. “I thought that it would not be needed.”

“And why would that be?” The High Priest’s tone is low and dangerous.

Wong did not answer and Stephen glances at his friend in worry, finding the man bowing his head silently.

“Brother Stephen,” he faces the High Priest again, whose attention is fully on him. "Did you know that there is another Temple dedicated to our God?"

Stephen shakes his head and the High Priest hums. 

"It is full of priests that do not share the same amount of passion that we have. They live on the bare knowledge that their foolish High Priestess Alys gives them and does not give the appropriate devotion to Atrishoneus. They are quite unpleasant and I would not be surprised if they are now a part of that… _ unfortunate _ horde of Unworthy."

The High Priest clears his throat, smiling serenely to Stephen. "Nevertheless, we are elevated above them because we are special. The Temple of Fire is the most devout to our God and we are all filled with an appetite that cannot be sustained by mere food.” 

“What is that?”

“The ultimate Passion.” The Head Priest smirks, his eyes once again scanning Stephen up and down. “The heat caused by the increasing satisfaction of a body against a body.” He reaches out, touching Stephen’s arm and stroking it, stepping closer to him. “Of a touch that can bring pleasure.” 

Stephen shivers uncomfortably but the Head Priest seems to misinterpret it to something else. “You are ready, Brother Stephen. Join us into our most passionate ritual.”

Stephen opens his mouth to tell the High Priest exactly what he thinks, consequences be damned before the High Priest lets out a gasp, stepping away from him as if burned.

A sudden heat surrounds him, one reminiscent of his dreams. 

He feels it caress his cheek, almost lovingly and he raises his hand to touch it but there was only the warmth. There is a burst of fire, a roar that can only be described as inhuman and the flames move, forming a ring around Stephen. 

He can hear the gasps of surprise and startled whispers as the other worshippers gather around them, pointing at the ring of fire that surrounds Stephen. A few attempt to touch the flames but they all cry out in pain when the flame touches their skin, the heat too much for them to handle.

Then the flames grow, turning golden before crimson red and they reach out to Stephen, fingers of fire running along all over his body in a comforting touch while maintaining a protective circle around him. He feels a soft touch against his forehead and the fire roars once again as Stephen enjoys the solace it gives him.

"You," the Head Priest speaks up, his voice carrying over the roar of the flames. He looks at him, eyes wide in awe and something else that Stephen could not recognize. "You have been blessed.”

The High Priest turns to the crowd, spreading his arms. “Truly today is a blessed day and we have been witnesses of a miracle. Our God has been gracious and gifted another with his blessing. All bow to Stephen… the Firewalker.”

The crowd all start shouting their adulation, bowing their heads in reverence as Stephen freezes in shock over what has happened and he looks to Wong. His friend only returns his gaze with one of uneasiness. 

Trapped under the gaze of so many, Stephen doesn’t notice the scowl on the High Priest’s face as he and two others make an exit, or the glowing embers watching him from the darkness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dun dun duuuun! Stephen's been blessed! 
> 
> As always, feel free to leave kudos and/or comments! I like knowing what you guys think of this chapter 💙
> 
> ** Edit: ** Now with a header made by the lovely [Maya](https://twitter.com/Nobel_Kween?s=09)!
> 
> For the user named Shi_elle, I advice to please no longer comment more of your hate. Use the back button if you are offended by this story. If you comment something that is considered mean and abusive, it will deleted just like your other comments. Also, please stop copying my works into other websites and claiming it as yours. Thank you 💙


	5. Breath of Mischief & Passion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ** Warning: Sexual Content! **
> 
> This work has been beta'ed by the lovely [Foxglove_Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction)! Go and check out her works in the link. She's amazing~

* * *

**   
  
**

* * *

The history of the world is vast. Much has been lost to the passage of time from simple degradation, destruction, to loss of oral lore. However, where the gods are concerned, nothing ever seems to be truly erased.

Relics of the gods seem to somehow persist, passed down by believers from generation to generation. Oral tradition speaks of a dove that perches near the lotus flower of serenity, and the silvery-grey buffalo who protects it with thunderous bellows of warning. Of a golden-red dragon and among its hoard a mask that hides mischief and chaos. A lynx that prowls through secrets that never see the light of day with its blood-red key, keeping to its silence and a blue crown that gives out the aura of strength and honour. 

These are some of the known relics that hold a small portion of the gods’ powers, a reminder to mortals that in return for their worship and praise they have much and more to offer. It is for that reason considered a folly for a worshipper to misuse a relic; the gods are not known to appreciate their names being smeared and will bring down their wrath on as many as it takes to make their displeasure clear. There are always consequences for the misuse of blessed objects.

\--_ Excerpt from “ _ ** _Gods and Goddesses: A Journeyman’s Travels_ ** _ ” _

* * *

The tavern is full of many different people, as most taverns in this area seem to be. 

Noble knights take a brief reprieve from their journeys, and tired farmers gather to discuss the weather and crops. The room is filled with the music of a travelling bard who performs for a free meal and maybe more. 

It is bustling with casual chatter and the clinking of glasses as patrons raise a toast together in celebration of things unknown to those outside their groups. The barkeeper dutifully cleans the newly washed glasses, and a pair of maids weave through the crowd serving the patrons their drinks. It is peaceful in its own way, the atmosphere filled with happy cheers and raucous laughter as the bard plays an uplifting tune that encourages some of the crowd to clap and stomp along. 

In the midst of the revelry the doors open and a young woman draped in a black cloak enters, the fabric clasped closed in the front by golden buttons that hint at her status. While some do not notice her, being busy with their own interactions, others do turn their heads to look at her closely. Her long golden hair loosely flowing down her back, swaying slightly as she approaches the bar and sits daintily on one of the stools, sweeping her hair to the side before unclasping her cloak, revealing the crimson red gown that she wears underneath.

"Milady, are you lost?" The barkeep, bless his soul, looks at the woman slightly worriedly. 

"Perhaps," the young woman replies, looking at him with her wide blue eyes. "I am in need of someone to accompany me."

The woman smiles sweetly, fluttering her eyelashes as she glances at the crowd behind her. "Would there be anyone brave and strong enough to help me?"

"I, Vosran, can fill your journey with lifting songs and praises, milady!" The bard ceases his playing and raises his hand eagerly, a grin set on his face. 

One man scoffs, brushing the man aside to flex his arms. "Rokhea the Strongman will protect you from thieves! No need to worry, pretty girl!"

One of the knights suddenly stands, bumping his shoulder against the second man and walks resolutely to the woman, standing straight before bowing low. "Milady, I am a knight-errant and it would be my great honour to guard you on your journey."

He finds himself being shoved away by other men who attempt to get closer to the blonde woman, each shouting their own capabilities and reasons why they are most suitable to accompany the young lady, who seems to be amused by what is happening before her. 

She orders a sweet roll in exchange for a silver coin, which sends the man behind the counter scurrying towards the kitchen to fetch the item in question and give it to her. He hurries back to her quickly, offering it to the young woman on a platter. 

She slides the sweet roll closer, picking it up delicately in her hand, winking teasingly at the man before biting into it. Chewing on it thoughtfully, she hums softly to show off how she loves it, licking her lips in satisfaction as she continues eating, shifting in her seat and settling the cloak further, resting it around her waist and revealing bare, pale shoulders. She casts a coy smile at the crowd, exhaling a dramatic sigh. 

“However will I choose?”

A barely visible green mist slips from her lips and begins to overtake the room, spreading over the crowd before there is a noticeable shift in the atmosphere and the once jovial mood of the tavern is being replaced by the angry clashing of weapons, the breaking of chairs and furious wild yelling. 

The young woman’s sky blue eyes gleam in amusement, eyeing the destructive havoc going on with a satisfied smirk. She finishes her sweet roll before leaning back against the counter. A glint in the far corner catches her attention and she glances over to see a man in plain but rich ebony robes, his brown hair swept back and eyes like molten gold. 

She winks at the man and he stands, brushing off his robes before making his way towards the bar, maneuvering smoothly through the mess of bodies caught up in the chaos until he stands in front of the young woman. 

She grins fondly at him as he slides ten gold pieces to the barkeeper. “For the mess,” he says, his tone apologetic before turning back to the woman, ignoring the barkeeper’s grateful words and she slips off her stool, circling her arms around his arm. 

“Well!” She raises her voice, carrying over the sounds of fighting and the other men stop their brawl to look at her and the man she is attaching herself to. “I think I’ve found my hero.”

The room falls into stunned silence as the men register their failure before there is loud protests and the sounds of objects being dropped to the ground and she hides a giggle against her companion’s bicep. 

The man she is clinging to ignores the others, gently leading her away from the bar. When a young squire blocks their exit. The young woman narrows her eyes. 

"What could a mere commoner give that I, a trained warrior, cannot?"

The woman opens her mouth, about to respond to him with a cutting remark before her partner beat her to it.

"Move," the man orders the squire, his voice low in warning and when the knight's eyes only widen, he growls. "I will not say it again."

The squire stumbles away and no one else dares to take his place as they both leave the tavern. As soon as the doors close, they walk further into the nearby forest and when they are far enough, the young woman throws her head back, laughing out loud as she releases the man’s arm.

“That was quite an interesting standoff, darling,” she purrs, moving to stand before the man with a playful smirk set on her lips. “Must you terrify that poor man? The fight was already finished."

Amber eyes look at her, glinting lightly in amusement. "Yet you are the one who initiated the mess in the first place."

The young woman's smirk grows into a satisfied grin. "Well, I wanted to catch your attention." She leans closer, walking two fingers up his chest, "I daresay I was successful."

The man huffs, catching her fingers before lifting them up to his lip, pressing a gentle kiss to the tips. "You always have my attention, dear." 

Their surroundings shimmer and the pull of time and space sends thrills into the young woman. She holds onto her companion, locking eyes with him as they emerge into a massive bedroom before she’s drawn closer to the man. 

He releases her hand, wrapping the arm around her waist instead, his free hand gently running through her blonde hair before cupping her jaw. Warmth flows through him and into the young woman, slowly stripping away the enchantment the young woman has on herself. 

Sky blue eyes glow for a brief moment before emerald green takes their place, glinting in mischief as the magic surrounds both of them. Once it subsides, the visage of a young woman is no more, a slender young man standing in her place. 

Ebony hair replaces golden blonde, cascading in waves down to the middle of his back. He is still in his crimson dress yet he does not mind it, wrapping his arms around the other man’s neck before pressing his lips against his partner’s, closing his eyes as the hand on his waist tightens its hold. 

Teeth catch his bottom lip and he laughs breathlessly. Before he can catch his breath he finds himself on his back on top of a large bed, his gown already cast aside, though he has no time to check whether it was removed by magic or is entirely unusable now. He keens in pleasure as the man above him begins worrying marks into his neck. He laughs airily, sliding his palm behind the man’s neck to pull him up, begging sweetly for kisses.

In the darkness of this space his partner’s eyes seem darker than they had outside, a single halo of gold in his eyes catching the light as he stares into his soul. Their bodies press against each other, lips whispering his name in prayer as they press against his, muffling his cries of pleasure. His nails dig deeply into his lover’s defined back, marking him in return. 

He arches his back as his lover thrusts harder into him, moaning loudly as he lets out a final groan and the familiar warmth of his lover's release fills him up. Soft lips press against his in quiet affection as they both slowly come down from the high of their mutual orgasm.

He wraps his arms loosely around him, humming in satisfaction as his lover left a few more adoring kisses on his chest, whispering the two syllables that compose his name. 

“Loki,” his lover murmurs against his skin, grinding against him gently and Loki huffs, cupping both sides of his cheeks and making him look at him. He gives the man a kiss on the lips, nibbling on his lower lip in mock chastisement. 

"You are insatiable," he tells him affectionately, lifting his legs to latch onto the other’s hips. “That was a perfectly good dress you ruined.”

Warm chocolate eyes look at him fondly, caressing his sides tenderly before starting to nibble his neck. Loki moans, arching his back as he tightens his hold on the other man.

“Am I not allowed to lavish attention and love on my dearest?” his lover cheekily asks. 

Eyes rolling, Loki huffs in amusement before letting himself get lost in the passionate pleasure and there is no articulate thought from both of them for a while. 

* * *

Days pass like minutes when time is irrelevant. Without ageing or fear of dying, days, weeks, months, entire lifetimes can pass over the length of a nap.

When his lover wakes screaming one night Loki finds no displeasure in his loss of sleep. Instead, it is his partner’s state that worries him. Golden eyes are wide with panic, tears pooling in them as his powers flare and flicker, lighting the room in strange, strobing globes. Foxfire, the mortals call it, but not a controlled instance of it.

“My love? What ails you?” he soothes softly, his fingers running into the man’s short locks and over his face.

“Death.”

The word hangs in the air between them for a few moments as the wild look in his partner’s eyes begins to fade, his eyes focusing on Loki properly. It isn’t until the man settles that Loki dares to press further and finds himself faced with a strange realization - despite all their years, his lover still fears death and has nightmares of dying.

The idea of sleep is swiftly cast aside as he draws his lover’s head into his lap and strokes his hair, singing him a lullaby and continuing to speak to him even after knowing he’d fallen asleep. His presence, his touch, his voice… all are things he knows provide the man solace, and that is precisely what he needs.

Solace… and sleep.

"Loki." The whisper of his true name comes while his lover settles on the brink of wakefulness and Loki melts, burying himself in his arms and nuzzling his neck affectionately. 

"I'm here," he answers, watching as his lover opens his brilliant eyes, gazing up at him before Loki leans over him, kissing him briefly.

"Rise and shine, darling," Loki murmurs against his lips. 

“I’m always shining. But you could help with the rising part…” his lover hums softly, giving him a cheeky smile even as Loki rolls his eyes.

"No more nightmares?" 

His lover shakes his head, the smile on his lips softening. He presses their foreheads together affectionately, taking a deep breath before speaking. "No, thanks to you."

Loki sighs as his lover's familiar warmth spread through him. His power balancing the cold he feels within and he moves to rest his head on the top of the other's chest, pleased to feel the steady beat of his heart.

He can feel his beloved’s hand idly stroke down the length of his back before he cups his rear, patting it. He huffs out a laugh, pulling back slightly to look at the golden-eyed man, who is smirking mischievously at him. 

“Insatiable,” he says playfully before pressing a quick kiss on the other’s lips. 

Loki runs his hands over his lover’s shoulders, sliding down his body until he is half sitting by his legs, the length that he is _ very _ familiar with already hard in excitement. He makes a show of licking his lips before teasingly peppering kisses upwards along the length before he draws the tip into his mouth, sucking on it lightly. 

He moves with practiced ease, bobbing his head up and down then swirling his tongue around the tip, moaning at how heavy the length feels in his mouth. He can feel his lover’s hand tangle itself in his hair, gently tugging to pull him away from the cock. 

He smirks as he leans back and lays down on the bed, biting his lower lip and positioning himself with his thighs slightly spread to invite his lover. Golden eyes narrow, focusing in on the way his long legs are tucked in to slightly give him a glimpse of his _ assets _ before Loki feels warm hands sliding down his thighs and he sighs in bliss, raising a leg to stroke down the other's chest before letting his legs fall apart in submission for the other man. 

He laughs as his lover takes the invitation, immediately hitching his legs high onto powerful shoulders in a motion that is familiar to the both of them as fingers prod his hole teasingly, making Loki's body burn alive again in want and anticipated pleasure.

“Lube?” his partner inquires softly and with a twist of his hand, Loki complies, a simple spell making short work of the process. His thanks come in the form of several small kisses along his jaw and the fingers beginning to press past the tight rim of muscle.

He moans, feeling familiar fingers inch into him, finding that sweet spot within as he is being spread wide open once more. It isn't long before his lover takes him, the slide rough and fast and making him feel so blissfully pleased as his lover slides into him, ramming deeper than ever as warm hands keep his thighs spread wide. 

Loki moans louder, gazing up into dark eyes that stare intensely back at him, radiating love and desire. He whimpers as the eyes that ground him flicker away, a strong hand tilting his face to one side. His lover nudges his way into the curve of Loki’s neck and litters small bites along his skin, tracing up his jaw before he feels tender kisses on his fluttering eyes.

A hard thrust into Loki has him seeing stars and he lets out a loud cry as his arms circle around the golden-eyed man, pulling him closer and biting down on hard muscles as he claws more desperately now, all control fleeing with the desire for more. 

Flames suddenly appear around them, an abstract manifestation of his lover’s power and a testament to how fully focused on Loki’s pleasure he is. The lights catch his lover’s eyes in a beautiful way, highlighting the subtle nuanced colours hidden there as the man presses his forehead against Loki’s once more. 

The flames of passion surround them, the tips licking his skin in a soft way that he has grown used to and he arches his back in pleasure as his lover thrusts deeper into him, moaning loudly and scratching up red lines on the bare skin of the glorious body above him, his nails slipping over the sheen of sweat that highlights his muscular body beautifully in this light. 

"Tony," he whispers his beloved’s true name with adoration. 

"Come for me," Tony responds quietly as he delivers one particularly hard thrust that has Loki arching his back and reaching the peak of his pleasure at the same time Tony does. 

The flames around them grow brighter in sync with their master as Loki climaxes untouched and Tony releasing inside him, pulsing deep and oh so warm in Loki's usually cold body. He presses kisses all over Tony's handsome face, sighing in contentment as Tony reciprocates, nuzzling his cheek adoringly.

They stay like that for a few more moments, basking in their connection as the flames around them subside. 

"I love you," Loki whispers to Tony, who smiles as bright as the sun before kissing Loki briefly. 

"I love you, too."

So then the day officially starts for Lopter, the God of Mischief and his beloved, Atrishoneus, the God of Passion. 

_ Passion indeed _, he muses to himself as Tony pulls out and Loki lets out a low mewl at the feeling of his lover leaving his body. 

A simple wave of his hand cleans them both up and Loki watches as Tony's muscular body slides off the bed, the golden mist surrounding and bathing him in golden light before it fades, leaving him dressed in simple crimson robes. 

Tony turns to him, sitting on the bed to look at Loki, who reaches out with one arm, grinning cheekily at him. His lover indulges him, taking his hand in his and leaning down slightly to kiss his knuckles until he suddenly pauses, his golden eyes turning cloudy for a brief second before he tilts his head, his eyes clearing just as quickly. 

Loki sits up, placing a hand on Tony’s chest worriedly and his beloved takes a deep breath, his eyes glowing crimson red for a moment before returning to its soft golden amber. "It’s that time once again.”

Loki narrows his eyes as Tony looks at him, placing his hand on top of his. “I’ll be back soon.”

It has always been like this. Gods, to some extent, do have a connection in each of the temples of worship built in their name. They are able to speak to their High Priests by dream walking, though the mortals refer to it as _ visions _. While Loki does keep a good relationship with his worshippers, Tony maintains a reserved attitude to his own, preferring to keep to the shadows and observe before actually making his presence known. 

And nowadays, his lover has his eyes set on the Temple of Fire in the East, where mysterious events have been happening for a long time. 

“Why do you worry?” he asks him gently. “Some mortal affairs are none of our concerns.”

“Darkness is not supposed to surround a Temple that has my name,” Tony says firmly, ending their conversation for the time being. 

It is later that night that he tells Loki about the temple’s troubling ‘traditions’ of inviting the cursed ones into the premises, never to be seen again. He also mentions how the punishments are a little severe, especially to someone who is merely curious. 

“So you were distracted by pretty blue eyes?” Loki grins teasingly and delights in the slight reddening of his lover’s cheeks. 

He continues teasing his beloved over the next few days, much to Tony’s mild exasperation. While Loki does think it is fun to get a rise from his usually stoic darling, he is very happy to see his interest in a mortal priest blossom. Though Loki would have to get to know the said person in the near future if this interest continues to progress in earnest. 

It’s a week after Tony’s first visit to the temple that Loki finds himself in their gardens, sitting on the grass as he picks up some snowdrops to make a flower crown to busy himself. Bytruces, the God of Forests and a good friend of Tony’s, is visiting today and Loki wants his lover to spend some time with people that are not Loki. 

_ Helps him open up more, _ he thinks to himself, twisting the stems of the flowers deftly to interlock them. 

He finishes the crown quickly, placing it on top of his head just as he _ feels _Tony approaching and he looks up just in time for Tony to come into view. Their eyes meet and Tony stands frozen in front of him, his amber eyes wide. 

He must have been such a great sight, Loki smirks. Sitting on the grass in nothing but a loose robe that shows off a lot of his skin, his hair loose with a flower crown on top. Tony approaches him as if in a daze, kneeling down with both knees on the grass in front of Loki. 

“Hello, darling,” Loki purrs and Tony blinks as if to shake himself out of his daze and smiles, reaching out to cup his jaw and trace his thumb on his cheek as he sits back on his heels. 

“Hello,” Tony greets him quietly before leaning over to kiss his forehead. “I missed you.”

“It has just been two hours, Tony,” Loki laughs lightly. “You love me that much?”

“Of course I do.” The intensity of his amber gaze makes Loki smile and he leans forward to kiss him briefly. 

“The feeling is mutual,” he tells his lover and Tony pulls away slightly, holding up his hand, palm out. 

Tilting his head curiously, Loki watches Tony produce a small black box, offering it to him. He takes it, raising an eyebrow at his lover. It is not unusual for both of them to be giving gifts to each other but it still makes Loki slightly confused. He opens the box, his eyes widening at the sight of a beautiful golden choker necklace with emeralds embedded onto the body before a pendant made out of amber that is similar to the colour of Tony’s warm flames. 

“Oh, Tony…” he whispers, lifting the necklace off the box and admiring how the sunlight bounces off it attractively. “This is beautiful.”

Tony’s smile grows, lighting up and making Loki’s heart warm at the sight. “I wanted the necklace to suit my beautiful beloved.” He says and Loki moves closer to him, kissing the underside of his jaw as Tony shifts to sit properly on the grass. 

“Help me,” he tells Tony, handing him the necklace before bundling his hair up in his hands and lifting it up. He feels the weight of the necklace resting on his neck and he reaches up to touch it as Tony circles his arms around his waist pulling him closer until his back is against his chest. 

“It’s a physical reminder,” Tony whispers quietly, “that I love you and that you have nothing to worry about.”

Loki huffs a laugh. He leans back to kiss Tony’s cheek. “I’m not jealous, darling. Did you think that I was afraid that the pretty priest would steal you away from me?”

He can _ hear _Tony’s pout and he laughs out loud this time as Tony tightens his hold on him. “You’re just unpredictable sometimes.” The golden-eyed god says in a slightly affronted tone, kissing Loki’s exposed neck.

Loki outright grins as he turns to face Tony and holds his face between his hands. “My love, me being unpredictable is my best asset.” 

A glint of rare mischievousness flashes in Tony’s eyes and Loki feels a squeeze on his bottom, making him slightly jump at the sudden touch. Desire flows through him and he smirks, looking at his beloved with half hooded eyes. 

“_ One _ of your best assets,” Tony tells him before they fall back onto the grass as a hard kiss presses on Loki’s lips, swallowing his moan as his robes fall apart in Tony’s eager hands. 

Today is one of the special traditions that Tony’s worshippers celebrate and it is a day that allows civilians to attend, making it ideal for the two of them to participate. It also gives Loki a chance to see the blue-eyed priest that has caught his lover’s eyes.

Tony visits first, telling him that he is stopping by the Temple of Passion before attending the so-called famous Mass of the High Priest in the Temple of Fire and Loki decides to join him when the actual festivities are taking place. He feels the flow of old magic within him that binds him and his lover as life partners for all eternity, never to part, never to be parted.

He feels the tug, grounding and reassuring, the signal that they use when calling for the other and Loki follows it, taking a deep breath and allowing the bond to bring him near Tony’s location. 

He steps over to the mortal world, letting his body morph into the shape of a young boy. He feels himself grow smaller and shifts his clothing to match his now tiny body before once again following the invisible string to his lover, who is in his child shift as well and is standing next to someone donned in the red robes of the Temple of Fire. 

Loki hums, sliding closer to Tony and slipping his hand into his. “Miss me?” he whispers in the other’s ear and Tony turns to him, grinning. 

“Always.” 

Their interaction must have been heard by the priest, who looks down at them in confusion. Loki puts on his most enthusiastic face and meets the man’s eyes.

“Mister! Can we go play?” he asks him brightly.

The man frowns slightly, glancing at Tony, who seems to be looking at the man with a pleading and pouty face before he sighs, waving them away. 

“Go, go,” he says before turning back to whatever he is watching. 

Tony drags him to a better spot that allows them to watch what is happening. Loki turns to face the scene, where priests and priestesses are fire dancing, their movements clean and precise as they wield their instruments deftly but it was one priest in particular that catches Loki’s attention.

His face is hidden underneath the veil that he wears but Loki recognizes the hidden fire inside him, one that is similar to the blessing that Tony usually places on himself.

Loki looks at Tony, grinning. "You placed a blessing of protection on him, too," he says and his lover looks at him with a shy smile. 

"I think he is interesting." Tony looks like he wants to reach out to hold his hand, squirming visibly on his feet and Loki smiles at him excitedly. 

Glancing back at the dancing priest and watching how he rolls his body, sweat glistening off his skin due to the close proximity of the heat and the blue eyes that reflect the intensity of the fire, Loki finds the sudden urge to know more about the man as well.

"So do I," he admits to his lover, turning back to him. "I'll make it a point to get to know him too."

"But not now." After all the years that they have spent together, Tony already knows him very, very well.

Loki gives him a mischievous grin. "Not right now, no. We have a job to do."

He can hear the applause from the mortals in front so the dance must have ended. The festival does have more activities but Loki finds himself not caring, for now, wanting to spend more time observing the celebrations.

“We came here to investigate, my love,” Loki reminds him, tapping his nose. “So, let us investigate while everyone is preoccupied.”

Tony takes a deep breath before nodding. “I’ll stay here to watch the others. You might want to slip into the Temple with a new disguise.” 

Loki nods and is about to step away from Tony when he feels his beloved's hand on his wrist. He glances back at his partner and Tony smiles. 

"Be careful, Loki."

"I always am, darling."

Sending Tony a wink, the lantern behind them went out, giving them both ample time to change their forms and scatter - and for Loki that takes the form of a quick jaunt through space as well. He appears in the empty main hall of the Temple in another form of a young man and moves from there, making his way to the set of stairs that leads to the basement. 

The smell hits him first. A nauseating assault on his senses that makes Loki wince and steps back slightly. The basement as a whole is so dimly lit that it is hard to see so Loki snaps his fingers, summoning a small ball of emerald light to illuminate his surroundings.

He walks carefully, alert for anything. 

From what he can see, the whole basement is a large area, divided into four pathways and lined with cells that are unlit. As he walks along one path, he can hear the low groans from the cells. Bracing himself, he inches closer to one of the cells. 

A shadow shifts in the corner and Loki brightens the ball of light just a little bit to allow him to see as a grotesque looking hand suddenly swipes out to him, followed by a horrifying face that is sunken, black tracks running down from the empty sockets that used to be eyes and Loki rears back in alarm as uninvited memories resurface.

_ His hope slowly dwindling at the sight of the locked cell door, the monster laughing at him from the other side of the cell. _

_ "Here you shall stay. For eternity. No one is going to save you." _

The creature in front of him wails, breaking Loki's unwelcome trip into the pit of his worst memories. It claws desperately at the bars before tearing at its own ripped up garb, throwing it at Loki. 

It is his unfortunate luck that the bond he has with Tony suddenly flares up, unbidden rage flowing through him from his lover and Loki grits his teeth when he loses control of his magic, the light suddenly blaring out in such a blinding way.

Loud shrieks from every cell suddenly pierce the air as he quickly extinguishes the light and Loki can hear loud and almost earth-shaking footsteps (or more like stomps) heading his way. 

Still shaking from the anger that he felt, Loki reaches out, blindly searching for something that he could bring to Tony and his hand brushes against what seems to be like fabric. 

Tucking the fabric into his robes, Loki stands quickly just as a rough growl can be heard from his right. Thinking fast, he throws a blade of light right towards the approaching figure, the light flashing brightly and effectively momentarily blinding whoever is approaching him. 

Hastily using the surprise as his advantage, Loki takes a deep breath and travels through space to where his lover is, using their bond to locate him quickly.

He arrives in the cover of darkness and what greets him is the sight of Tony's roaring flames surrounding the priest, the Head Priest exclaiming that another one has been blessed, spinning tales of what happened, his voice joyful yet there was no masking his lies from the God of Mischief. He turns to face Tony, who is back in his usual form, his glowing eyes flickering from gold to red dangerously. 

Fortunately, they are in the shadows away from prying eyes so Loki immediately takes Tony's hand, sending a wave of calm into their bond. Tony slightly relaxes. Loki casts an apologetic glance at the flustered priest, who is still being praised by the crowd and unaware of the High Priest is leaving the scene, before pulling his lover away into the space stream. 

They arrive in their home with Loki moving to place both hands on Tony's shoulders and pulls him closer in a hug. "Calm down," he whispers soothingly. "What happened, beloved?" 

"The High Priest," Tony grits out, burying his face into Loki's shoulder, "he tried to make a move on Stephen."

Loki sighs quietly, manoeuvring them to sit on their bed to at least make things more comfortable. "Activating the protective circle in a very public place is risky, Tony. It drew unnecessary attention to him," he pulls away slightly.

He couldn't blame his lover for his action though, knowing how impulsive he tends to be in some situations. If Loki were in Tony's place and he saw Tony being pestered, he would have done the same thing. 

"I apologize," Tony murmurs, "I put you in danger as well because of my outrage."

Loki brings his attention back to Tony, who has already calmed down from his initial anger. He looks rather conflicted and Loki hates to see that look on his face. He reaches out, cupping his face with both hands and strokes his cheeks lovingly.

"No need for apologies, Tony. I understand," Loki says, leaning forward to kiss his forehead. "You had to protect him."

"I put you in danger."

"Darling, you know that it would take more than a mortal to physically harm me," Loki reassures him gently, drawing Tony into his embrace once again.

They stay like that for a moment before Loki helps his lover into their bed, sending a wave of calming magic into him to help his slumber. Even though sleep is not necessarily needed for gods, it brings them a certain comfort to participate in such mundane activities - particularly together. 

He hums a soothing song, letting his mind wander as he sits down beside Tony. 

He fears that something devastating may happen in the future of the priest after that little stunt. The High Priest’s words seemed simple but were carefully chosen to manipulate the minds of the followers, the hatred in his eyes was familiar especially when it was directed at the younger priest.

_ No, please! I just wanted him back! _

Unbidden memories surface from the back of his mind and he shivers, stomping on them mentally before trying to focus. He needs answers.

Loki slips off the bed, once again stepping into the mortal realm but this time, in a different place entirely. 

The Temple of Passion is a smaller version of the Temple of Fire and is usually considered more simple and lacking by the other priests residing in the Temple of Fire but in Loki's opinion, this is the temple that truly understands what it means to worship Tony. 

There is a slightly large crowd loitering in the area, considering that it is also celebrating Tony's day so Loki makes sure that he dons a female form, her red robes blending in with the crowd. She only needs the attention of one person and she moves, mingling with the people until she spots her.

The High Priestess, Alys.

_ Perfect. _

Loki moves to the side, spotting the small bell that she usually wears around her neck and subtly reaches out, pulling at the threads of magic surrounding it and rings it once. 

The sound is not at all loud but still can be clearly heard by the woman wearing it, judging by how she straightens up in her seat and looks around before they lock eyes. 

Loki gives her a subtle nod before moving once again, ducking into what seems to be a study and places a spell on the door to ward off the entry of any unwanted persons. It wasn't long before he hears a knock on the door and it opens as the High Priestess walks in, the door shutting behind her. 

“To what do we owe the incredible honour of being visited by two gods in a span of just hours?" she inquires and Loki shifts back to his male form, smirking at her. 

The High Priestess smiles, bowing low in respect before straightening herself. "My god Atrishoneus has already left hours ago. Is he alright?"

The familiarity between them is comforting and Loki gestures for her to join him in sitting at a pair of armchairs. 

"He's back home, Alys," he tells her amicably, "safe and sound."

"Ah," she tilts her head slightly. "Then what is it that you need?"

Loki crosses his knees, leaning over slightly to show the High Priestess the scrap of cloth that he managed to grab during his investigation.

Under the light, it was clear that even when dirtied by dirt and grime, said cloth may have been a part of what is usually worn by the priests and priestesses of the Temple of Fire: a ripped up veil. 

“The High Priest in the Temple of Fire," Loki says. "Tell me everything you know about him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh! welcome to the small glimpse of the lives of the gods! :D Stephen will be back in the next chapter, don't worry! 
> 
> Feel free to leave kudos and/or comments! Let me know what you guys think! See you all in the next chapter and THANK YOU FOR READING! 💙
> 
> ** Edit: ** Now with a header made by the lovely [Maya](https://twitter.com/Nobel_Kween?s=09)!


	6. Mountain of Loneliness

* * *

* * *

Many historical legends recount the blessings of the Divine Gods to those who worship them. However, the exact nature of the blessings that the gods bestow to their most devout followers is speculative considering that the temples hold such secrets close to their chests.

There are theories that the gods gain strength and power from the number of their worshippers, sacrifices, and deeds committed in the name of the god. However, it is widely known that human sacrifices remain to be forbidden given the belief that more followers empower a god. If a follower is killed in sacrifice it is believed to weaken a deity and has been used in certain religious wars in the past. The issue became especially egregious when it culminated in violations of the sacred spaces of the deities, which at times seemed to result in peculiar deaths with no known cause.

The people called it the vengeance of the gods. 

\--_ Excerpt from _ ** _“Blessings and Sacrifices for the Gods”_ **

* * *

It's been a week since Stephen experienced the blessing of fire and from that night Stephen finds himself being treated with unusual respect by his fellow priests, some even telling him that he would replace the High Priest.

“Oh, the High Priest is getting a bit too old now!” one of the priestesses insists, looking at him like he is a piece of meat. “Sometimes, young men need to have a chance in that coveted position after all.”

As the target of those kinds of comments - paired off with long-winded praises and longing stares - Stephen is very uncomfortable, to say the least. He is grateful, however, when Wong remains the same person he befriended when he arrived in the Temple of Fire three years ago. 

“Just ignore them,” Wong whispers to him as they pick up some herbs in the garden. 

Stephen had just been surrounded by some of the other priests trying to talk to him in the cafeteria but Wong managed to pull Stephen out of it, bringing him somewhere peaceful for a change. 

“You’re not at least a bit baffled by what happened?” Stephen asks his friend, who shrugs lightly, straightening up from his crouch by the flower beds. 

“I admit I was a little perplexed by what happened,” Wong looks at him and offers a small smile, “but you don’t deserve to be treated like a new attraction for people to flock to.”

Stephen returns the smile, bending down to grab a basket and cradle it against his side. “Thank you, Wong.” 

His friend rolls his eyes. “Just don’t let your sudden fame make you forget your chores, Stephen.” 

Stephen laughs, following his friend deeper into the garden. 

It has been a surreal experience, Stephen admits to himself. After all, who in their right mind wouldn't be happy to be blessed by the god that they worship? But he does not let it get to his head. He makes sure that he does his chores with the same diligence as he did before, cleaning the places he is assigned to without any complaint.

In comparison to the various clergy who have begun doting on him and requesting favours, Stephen finds that he prefers Wong’s company, his friend's composure a balm to soothe his nerves. Having his friend standing by his side and having someone to talk to without any judgement in his eyes? Stephen is content.

It’s for that reason that when he finds Wong’s face cloudy one day, his expression is unfamiliar enough to draw Stephen away from his chores in concern.

“Wong?”

He stops just before his friend, frowning. “What’s wrong?”

Wong takes a deep breath. "I am to be transferred to the Temple of Passion. I have been given a week to settle my affairs here."

His heart drops. "Why are you going to be transferred? You didn’t do anything wrong."

“I don’t know, Stephen.” Wong sighs tiredly and Stephen frowns at the conflicted look on Wong’s face. His friend must have noticed this as he straightens up, patting him on the shoulder. 

“It’ll be alright, Stephen.”

Stephen then clenches his fists. "No, I can't accept that. You can't leave!"

"Stephen!" Wong raises his voice, for the first time ever and Stephen silences himself, staring at his friend with desperate eyes. "We cannot go against the High Priest’s wishes. All we can do to keep our head down and out of trouble."

He places a hand on Stephen's shoulder as if he is trying to comfort him but all Stephen can think of is his only friend leaving him.

“I don’t know how I could endure the others without you,” he whispers in the silence that follows. 

The week flies by so quickly, much to Stephen’s dread, as Wong guides him through the duties that will be passed down to Stephen. He accepts the tutelage quietly. During that time, both of them reminisce about their time together, their scheduled cleaning in the library, the picking of herbs and Wong’s cooking lessons. 

On the night before Wong’s departure, they are at the top of the Temple, tending to the eternal flame that stands as a beacon for devout worshippers and weary travellers. Stephen places an armful of firewood into the flame as Wong gently arranges the logs with a poker. 

“Tomorrow, I will be setting off to the Temple of Passion,” Wong says and Stephen freezes. He takes a breath to steady himself and sits on the small bench beside the open flame.

“Be true to yourself, Stephen,” Wong tells him gently. “Don’t let their words get to you.”

“You’re the only one who sees me.” Stephen quietly admits to him.

“Stephen, I am not the only one standing by your side. Our God has blessed you-”

“Well, I never asked to be blessed!” Raising his voice angrily, Stephen clenches his fists as he looks at his friend. “I just want to be normal.”

Wong stares at him for a while and Stephen takes a deep breath to calm himself, bowing his head. He hears the rustle of robes before he feels Wong sit down beside him.

“The gods work in ineffable ways, unknown to even to their most devout of worshippers,” Wong says, nudging one of the firewoods in place. “Your blessing is a riddle from the gods, the solution to that riddle is between you and the gods.” 

His friend sighs and Stephen looks up at him as Wong rests a hand on Stephen’s shoulder. “I am sure that the answer will come to you sooner or later.”

They sit in silence after that with Stephen cherishing these last few moments between them. They both retire to their rooms after making sure that the flame will stay lit. 

Stephen lay tossing and turning on his bed, the inevitable departure of his friend keeping him away from deep slumber. 

Come morning, a weary Stephen with a heavy heart helps his friend carry the few belongings he has for his journey down to the wagon that will carry him away. He hands the bag to Wong once they are outside of the Temple and Wong reaches out to touch his shoulder in a comforting way. 

“We’ll see each other again,” Wong reassures him, “don’t worry.” He glances off to the side and Stephen follows his gaze to where Mordo is standing a few feet away, watching them quietly. He focuses his attention back to Wong, who grips his shoulder tight once. 

“Keep your eyes open, Stephen,” he tells him and Stephen doesn’t give it a second thought before he darts forward, hugging Wong tightly. 

He hears Wong grumble in protest before he feels Wong gently pat his back reassuringly. Stephen takes a deep breath, leaning into his friend’s touch before pulling away, smiling to silently tell his friend that he’ll be alright. 

“Safe travels, my friend,” Stephen tells him and Wong nods, hoisting his bag on his arm. With one final glance at him, Wong makes his way down the steps and onto the wagon that will take him far away and Stephen watches with a heavy heart as the driver simply nods at Wong’s quiet words before urging the horse carrying the cart forward. 

He stays outside, watching the wagon until it’s merely a blot on the horizon. Although his surroundings are slowly bathed in warm sunlight, all Stephen feels is the sharp cold of loneliness.

Over the next few days, the rumours that begin to spread around the Temple about Stephen and his blessing turn sour, with the others turning on him and whispering behind his back. 

“It’s a good thing that Wong was transferred to the other Temple. He doesn’t need any more nonsense.”

“His eyes turned silver when the fires embraced him. Do you think he is cursed, rather than blessed?”

In a bid to escape the madness, he retreats to the library for some peaceful reading but much to his dismay, there had been an order to clear out some books in the library. The once quiet atmosphere of the library seems to fill with the hushed whispers of the other priests. Stephen ignores them, his eyes zeroing in on one of the priests holding onto a familiar worn book.

“What are you planning to do with that?” Stephen asks lowly and the priest inspects the book passively before gesturing to the sack beside him. 

“It’s too old. It would serve better as kindling.”

Stephen’s eyes widen in fear and an irrational thought grips him. _ He can’t lose anything more. _

He swiftly approaches the priest, plucking it away from his hand. He holds the book close to his chest, protecting it from the others’ view. 

“I’ll take it. It is important to me.” He says before turning quickly to leave the library with his precious cargo, but not before overhearing the murmurs trailing after him. 

"How can a book scrawled on by a mad man be so important to him?"

"He didn't receive a blessing, it was a curse!"

With no friends to talk to and his fellows preferring to ignore him and whisper poisonous words, Stephen finds himself spending more time in his room after his tasks, taking comfort in the familiar worn-out book from the library. 

On the rare occasions when he is allowed to go to the nearby town, he seeks out materials and works on restoring the book in his room, taking great care to not destroy it. He works all night if he cannot sleep, missing the warmth that usually is a constant in his dreams. 

** _C_ ** _ over those in need with protection. Isn’t that what You’ve always strived for? Even those whose souls are meant to be judged. Those whose bodies lay strewn through the streets, writhing in pain and helplessness, You still save with a selfless smile. _

** _O_ ** _ ver the agony of the loss of a loved one, I struggle to stay strong as ichors flow even through treated wounds. I have to keep the memory of You alive, for no one else seems willing to do so, not anymore. Do not worry, for I do not fault Your desire to save for it is in Your pure and kind-hearted nature. _

** _M_ ** _ ortals are unaware of the meddling of the gods. They live only to support those they claim would be the answer to their salvation. I laugh, yet I find myself a little envious. Mortals, with their short lives and oblivious natures, who perish with no thought of their previous life. _

** _E_ ** _ ternity seems pointless if forever I am left consumed by despair and loneliness. I would wish for no more but that would be to deny Your sacrifice. They who desire to break Me will never succeed as long as I keep You in my memory. _

** _H_ ** _ appiness is no longer a stranger, however. For I am now with someone. I find myself experiencing joy once more after what seemed to be a lifetime of pain and suffering, content in the arms of someone who surrounds me with warmth and comfort. _

** _O_ ** _ nce I walked through ash and fire, the memory of misery and torture still echoing within the darkest part of my mind. I was once close to surrendering my power to the Wicked One but then I saw him, standing with fire surrounding him, destroying all but Him and I. He brought me Home expecting nothing but a smile is what he said to me. _

** _M_ ** _ y wounds slowly heal in time as I stay by His side, under his care and love. Yes, my old friend. Love. Something that I thought I have lost since Your sacrifice. You would have loved Him as well. His gentle eyes and caring touch and most importantly, his heart. Warm and tender and kind, I fell for Him and I am filled with delight to know that He feels the same as me. _

** _E_ ** _ nclosed into this journal is my hope. I pray, I hope that You will find Yourself in rebirth, to see the world with the eyes of an innocent. And I shall be here waiting, whispering into the winds for Your safe return, for the time You come back to me and meet my Beloved, hoping that You will grow to love Him as well. _

Stephen gently brushes the tips of his fingers over the words on the page, finding a little bit of comfort in them and as he does so, he notices that some of the letters in the page are slightly darker than the rest and carefully traces them out. 

C-O-M-E-H-O-M-E

_ Come home. _

Stephen exhales, his heart reaching out to wherever the author is. Though the state of the book itself speaks just how long ago this book must have been written, Stephen hopes that the author was reunited with the person that they were yearning for. 

There is a knock on his door and Stephen tucks the book under his pillow, straightening his robes before standing to open the door, revealing Mordo, his arms tucked into his sleeves as he looks passively at Stephen.

“Brother Mordo,” Stephen bows respectfully, not forgetting his manners. “What brings you to my door?”

“We are out of herbs in the kitchen,” Mordo tells him. “Fetch some in the mountain please.”

Has the garden been depleted once again? Setting aside his doubts, Stephen bows his head once again. “Of course, Brother Mordo. I’ll prepare quickly so that I can head out immediately.”

Mordo stares at him for a second before turning on his heel, leaving Stephen alone. Frowning, Stephen quickly gathers his cloak, knowing that the mountain is well known for its unusual cold climate. Fastening it securely around his neck, Stephen casts one last look in his room to check if everything is in its place before heading out, closing his door behind him. 

He gathers a basket in the kitchen and is looking for the small portable shovel that can help him dig up the herbs to bring back to the Temple.

“Last I saw it, it was with Nicodemus,” one of the helpful priestesses tells him. “He’s in the basement.”

Stephen thanks her before making his way down to the basement. It is an area that he has not been before despite all his years in the Temple but he promises himself to make it quick. He is only looking for Nicodemus after all. 

The basement, even under the lanternlight, gives him an unpleasant feeling deep into his bones. The stench of iron and rust fills the air and Stephen covers his nose with his sleeve at the awful smell, scanning the area for a sign of the man he is looking for. 

Cells line up each side of each pathway, some of its doors wide open and Stephen can see the dark patches coming from some of the cells as if something was dragged from it. The dark marks are speckled here and there around the area, and Stephen can’t help his curiosity as he brings a lantern a little closer to investigate.

“Brother Stephen.” 

Gasping, Stephen whirls around to see a smiling Nicodemus, a small bag slung across his body. Taking a deep breath to calm his nerves, Stephen returns the smile. 

“Brother Nicodemus, you scared me,” he says in a breathless, teasing tone and the other priest laughs. 

“My apologies, Brother Stephen,” Nicodemus tells him before tilting his head slightly. “Did you need something?”

“A small shovel, or spade, if you have it,” Stephen says, nodding his head to the basket he is holding. “I am off to the mountain to fetch some fresh herbs.”

Nicodemus’ eyebrows furrow and his smile fades. “Herbs? But...” he trails off as if remembering something and flashes him a nervous smile. “Of course.”

He opens his bag, shuffles around it for a few seconds before pulling out the item that Stephen is looking for, handing it over to him. “Be careful, Stephen,” he says solemnly and Stephen is about to answer him when the man simply bows before walking back into the depths of the basement.

Frowning at the oddness of his fellow, Stephen leaves the Temple with his items, beginning his trek to the mountain.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter got longer than expected so it has been split in half! I don't have enough self control over words hahaha! 
> 
> This work has been beta'ed by [Foxglove_Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction)! Go and check out her works in the link!
> 
> Header is made by the lovely [Maya](https://twitter.com/Nobel_Kween?s=09)!
> 
> Kudos and comments are always appreciated! Keep safe everyone and I'll see you all in the next chapter! 💙


	7. The Long & Winding Road

* * *

* * *

Even among the natural wonders, Chaos Mountain is a sight to behold. While it is known to be one of the tallest mountains in the East, it holds more intrigue than the average mountain. 

Legends speak of a labyrinth deep within the mountain where one misstep may lead to a visitor wandering around for hours. The labyrinth is considered rather notorious for its numerous casualties. Starvation and hypothermia are the least of the possible ways to die, as it’s believed to be filled with various traps as well. 

Those who have returned safely appear to be bound by secrecy regarding how they escaped, leaving many to wonder at how realistic the mentions of traps are. If survivors haven’t been able to speak about it, who has? And how? 

With the Temple of Passion at the foot of the mountain, it’s often a first step on a wanderer’s journey up the mountain. Those in the temple warn that their patron deity may not be the only god loitering on the mountain and preying on intruders. 

It seems there is no way to be assured of the truth of the mountain, and so it seems likely that the labyrinth, and the mountain itself, will forever be a mystery. 

\-- _ An Excerpt from _ " **Voyage to the East**: A Journeyman's Tale"

* * *

Chaos Mountain is located behind the Temple of Fire and while it is not his first time to go to the mountain, the sight of it never fails to amaze him. Snow-covered even during summer, it remains a mystery to scholars who try to study the mountain. However, even its seemingly eternal cold temperature is not normal and it is believed that perhaps it is the work of a god thought to temper the fiery spirit of Atrishoneus.

Stephen reaches the bottom of the mountain by the mid-afternoon, and the sun is right behind the mountain, casting a very impressive shadow over his path, which he is grateful for. 

Stephen does not mind the long walk at all, preferring the breath of fresh air that it gives him. His spirit lifts with the lilting songs of nearby birds and Stephen follows the road to the mountain, humming softly under his breath. 

Gathering herbs for medicinal and cooking purposes is easy, especially since it is one of his and Wong’s primary duties when the kitchen runs low. He pauses momentarily at the passing thought of his friend and he wonders briefly how the other man is. Was he able to reach his destination safely? Does he have the same duties that he did in the Temple of Fire? 

Shaking his head to clear his thoughts, Stephen focuses his attention back on his walk. The sudden drop in temperature is the tell-tale sign that he has already arrived at his destination. 

Tall, dark green grass covers both sides of the rocky path, standing tall as willow trees decorate the background. Fog slowly seeps in, adding more to the spine-chilling atmosphere of his surroundings and Stephen curses himself for not taking a companion with him. 

Holding onto his basket and keeping his senses alert, he presses on, making his way carefully to the area where he and Wong usually pick the herbs to take back into the Temple. He walks carefully and slowly, keeping his eyes open for any sign of danger. Wong once warned him of wild animals living on the mountain and it won't do any good if Stephen finds himself attacked by one.

He shivers slightly, nervousness setting into place as he can't help but feel like he is being watched.

Stephen finds the area after a few more minutes of walking and he crouches to the nearest patch of land where the herbs are, smiling at the sight of the lively green blanketed by a very thin layer of snow. It always amazes him at how these plants survive on this mountain given its unnaturally cold climate. 

_ Life finds a way. _

He is unearthing some of the herbs and gently placing them on the basket when he hears it. A crackle of the rocks coming from behind him that is not easily caused by the mere wind and Stephen slowly straightens his body, his mind bringing him back to the present. He then hears the raspy breaths of another person approaching him.

_ He’s not alone. _

A hand seizes his arm and yanks him off the ground forcefully but Stephen is ready for that, swiping his free hand and grabbing some little rocks and dirt in front of him, throwing it quickly at the person.

He knows that he manages to surprise them, judging by the grunt that they let out but Stephen doesn't pay more attention, grabbing his basket of herbs. As he begins to flee a strong arm loops around Stephen’s midsection as the other clasps Stephen’s throat, leaving the priest to drop his basket in panic.

Struggling in the man’s hold, Stephen claws at his attacker’s arm in an effort to get a full breath, clasping on one of the fingers and pulling it back. The man cries out in pain, dropping him and Stephen stumbles forward, gasping in air and attempting to get his footing to escape. 

With the blood rushing in his ears and the wheezing of his inhalations he doesn’t hear the first attacker approaching him. Instead, he feels an instant pain from the back of his head, collapsing and blacking out before he ever hits the ground.

* * *

Stephen wakes to a severe ache in the back of his head. He groans, trying to clutch at his head only to find himself unable to move his arms. He opens his eyes in confusion. 

The first thing he notices is that his legs are underneath his thighs in a kneeling position. His upper body is bowed over his thighs, his arms outstretched and tied together with ropes around his wrists. He tries moving but he is secured in place and it doesn’t help that his head is also killing him, making him unable to focus. 

He lifts his head, his eyes blearily taking in the large cavern in the scattered torchlight. A stone altar is set in front of him but he ignores it for now, turning his head and seeing a large opening just a few feet from him on the left, perhaps an exit. Stephen grits his teeth, trying to wriggle out of his bonds but a set of loud footsteps echoes into the cavern.

“He is awake,” a gruff voice suddenly states and Stephen jerks, crying out in pain as someone steps onto his hands and a hand grabs his hair, pulling his head back and forcing him to look up.

What greets him is a horrendous looking mask depicting a monstrous creature with fangs, shocking a gasp out of Stephen before he sends a seething glare at the person, almost snarling. The man merely chuckles before Stephen’s head is let go, the pain in his head subsiding slightly. 

“Fight all you want, Firewalker,” the masked man tells him with thinly veiled disdain. “Why fight when you’ve been called to join Atrishoneus?”

_ What? _

Stephen raises his head to look at the man. “What’s that supposed to mean?” 

The man only chuckles, standing beside him as a small crowd of people wearing similar masks pile into the cavern, each holding their own torch. Stephen watches with wide eyes as they all assemble in front of Stephen, murmuring and whispering amongst themselves. 

“Is that him?”

“The Firewalker?”

Stephen fidgets at how every person in the room looks at him, gleaming eyes hidden behind monstrous masks.

“Our salvation!” One of them cries out, reaching out to touch Stephen’s face and he tries to squirm away, pulling away as much as he can against his tight bonds. 

The loud ringing of a bell sends the person rearing back and the people all start to bow, lowering themselves onto the ground. Some shuffle to the sides, parting to give way for what seems like a procession. 

Two men, wearing only a pair of loose golden pants with a cummerbund around their waist, lead the parade, lighting the way with a large lantern. Behind them, a similarly clothed man with a large handbell, ringing it every now and then as the audience begins to bow and sit up again before repeating the movement. 

The procession is a short one and a tall and imposing and draped in an all gold ensemble from head to toe brings up the rear. Some sort of figurehead, to the best of Stephen’s supposition. An elaborate red mask covers their face, with golden embellishments that decorate the mask to resemble a fire. 

The people all start reaching out to them, crying out a babble of words that Stephen does not understand as the leader approaches Stephen. The other members all position themselves behind the stone altar, not exactly blocking the audience’s view of him as the leader stands beside him. 

“My Brothers and Sisters,” the golden clad person - a man, judging by his deep voice - addresses the crowd. “We have gathered here today for the start of our salvation.”

The audience cries out praises, agreements that make Stephen’s head hurt as their leader continues speaking.

"Fire consumes all! The flames of passion that drives us to be the great worshippers of Atrishoneus! Long have we waited for a sign of our god. For him to send us a worthy human as a sign of his appreciation of our ultimate devotion to him and that we would be graced with the ultimate blessing: for us to stand by his side.”

The man raises his arms, gesturing to somewhere behind the altar and the lantern bearing men move to illuminate whatever it is and to Stephen’s eyes widens, his mouth agape at the sight of a man encased in ice and dressed elaborately in familiar High Priest robes. 

“Look upon the first holy High Priest of the Temple of Fire. Set your gazes on how his body is left behind, for he has ascended and joined our god! He is our constant reminder that if you - if _ we _ are worthy - our god will be generous.

“Thus we offer our God our most sacred offering: bodies to satisfy his endless hunger for passion and destruction!”

Stephen couldn’t believe what is happening in front of him as exclamations and chanting fill the air, adding a sense of dark foreboding of what is to come. He struggles against his bonds, trying to get free. 

"Let me go!” he cries out. “This is against the laws of devotion. You’ll face the consequences!"

Someone grabs his hair once again and pushes his head roughly back onto the ground and Stephen groans, his head spinning and the pain spiking up at the rough treatment. 

“My brother, do not defile our precious sacrifice,” the leader’s soft voice instructs the person holding his hair and Stephen sighs in relief when the pressure on his head eases a little bit.

“You’ve seen this one’s holy blessing. Our god demands his body!” Something cold rests below his chin, tilting his head upwards and making his face much more visible to the crowd. “Pure and unmarked. He is the perfect sacrifice.” 

The sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach just dropped and Stephen stares at the masked man in front of him, holding the long dagger that is tilting his head upwards. 

“Please let me go.” He whispers. 

The man only tsks at him, drawing the dagger away from his chin before standing up fully. “Place him on the altar.”

Stephen feels the ropes binding him loosening and he is forcefully lifted up onto his feet. This might be his only chance. He twists in the man’s hold, jabbing his elbow into the man’s stomach. However, much to his dread, the man only snarls at him and grabs him by the back of the neck, throwing him violently forward to the altar. 

The air feels punched from his lungs and for a moment he’s certain he feels something cracking in his chest. Stephen tries to shake it off but his head is once again spinning. He holds onto the altar, weakly pushing himself away from it before he is grabbed by the arms and thrown to the ground beside it. 

"This one has more fight in him," his aggressor growls before there is a kick on his stomach. 

Curling up in pain, Stephen wheezes as he tries to move away. Crawl away. Anything to just get away. He reaches out, trying to pull himself upright but there is a sudden pressure on his outstretched hand before-

_ Crack. _Pain blossoms from his hand, travelling up to his arms and he screams in pain. He brings his hand closer to his body, shielding it from further damage but he was dragged upright and onto the altar. 

"Enough!" The leader shouts to the others. "What did I just say about defiling him? He must be in the best possible condition when he is offered to our god. You would not offer Atrishoneus a flower you had stepped on, would you? Restrain him, do not break him!"

He tries to kick at the man restraining him but there are others who come to assist him, holding Stephen down onto the rough surface of the stone altar. 

"Now that was amusing," the leader coos at him as he approaches the altar. "Never have I seen a sacrifice so unwilling to join our god."

Stephen glares at the man and opens his mouth to reply but one of the people holding him down grabs his already injured hand and grips it, sending pain up his arm once again like fire through his veins. He cries out, trying to twist away but his captors hold him steady.

_ He can’t die right now. _ He thinks as he looks at the dagger before returning his gaze to the leader. _ There must be some way to escape. _

“Blessed be those who have died to lead us closer to our god,” the leader raises his arms towards the heavens before turning back to the people. “The Firewalker shall pave the way for us to join our god!”

“Wait! Why are you doing this?” Stephen cries out and the leader stops, turning his head to look at Stephen through his mask. “Why try to kill me? Our god himself has not asked for this!”

The leader laughs, the sound echoing in the cavern. “Brother Stephen.” There is something familiar with how the man says his name but Stephen can’t place it at the moment. “You have been blessed by our god himself! We-” the man gestures to the small crowd, “-have all seen it ourselves.”

“If I am so blessed, and my purpose is as a sacrifice, do you truly believe it honours our god to kill me so easily, outright?” Stephen tells him. “Would a challenge not better excite his passions?” 

It is a false fact - the desperate bid of a desperate man - but he knows that he can’t exactly reason with someone unhinged like the leader of what seemed like a cult dedicated to Atrishoneus. 

It is a crazy proposal and Stephen hopes that the eccentricity of his bid for freedom will be sufficient. 

“A hunt,” the leader hesitates for a moment, a pregnant pause filling the room as he considers the option, “what a... _ marvelous _idea.”

The leader nods his head towards the people restraining him. “Let him go.” 

And they obey, stepping away from Stephen and allowing him to stand up from the altar. The chanting of the crowd stops as they all look in anticipation of what is to come. 

“Our sacrifice has offered a hunt,” the leader addresses the crowd, gesturing to Stephen, who slips off the altar. “And who am I to deny him his last wish?” 

One of the men behind him grabs Stephen’s shoulder and pushes him forward, making him stumble as he holds his injured hand close to his chest and he looks out at the others.

The small crowd looks quite excited at the idea of a hunt and Stephen silently regrets saying anything but shakes his head minutely. 

_ Focus _. 

“Shouldn’t I at least have a weapon to defend myself with?” Stephen asks the leader, who chuckles darkly. 

“Little rabbits shouldn’t have deadly weapons. The only thing they can do is run.” 

With that, the leader gestures his hand towards the exit. “Prey first,” he says, “one minute.”

Casting one last look at the leader, Stephen quickly makes his way towards it, ignoring the jeering and maniacal laughter from the crowd. 

“My faithful men, do not disappoint me...”

Stephen reaches the exit and runs into what seems to be a set of barely lit tunnels made out of rocks, hearing the last of the leader’s words:

"... Bring me his body!” 

Cursing, Stephen pushes himself to run, his heartbeat quickening at the sounds of heavy footfalls and the shouting of the mob about to take him back.

To take him back _ and kill him. _

He feels adrenaline surging into his blood, letting his instincts take control and once he comes across a fork he goes to the left, coming across a dead end. His eyes widens at the reveal and turns, about to head back to where he came from when he hears steps making its way towards him. 

His blood freezes and his feet lock in place. He almost stops thinking. He doesn’t remember pressing himself against the wall. He looks around for anything to defend himself with and spots a rock that is as big as his fist and picks it up, preparing himself for the inevitable encounter. 

Soon enough, a man steps into view and judging by the mask he is wearing, he is one of those tasked to hunt him down. Stephen doesn’t hesitate, throwing the rock at the man. It goes wide, hitting the wall beside the man, who turns to look at it. Stephen quickly runs to him, shouldering the man into the wall with all the strength he could muster. The shock jars his wounded hand and lights agony in his chest and he yelps, holding his hand close once again and protecting his injured ribs with his forearm.

He doesn’t wait to see what happened, instead grabbing the torch that the man was carrying and dashing back to the pathways and picks the other path. He hears a yell but he doesn’t dare look back, using the torch to find his way through the tunnel, dodging a few fallen rocks in his way as he hears the heavy footfalls following him and echoing words that seem to all bleed together into nonsense. He looks over his shoulder and is granted the sight of a couple of men carrying their own torches and large blades. 

Stephen forces his legs to run faster, hoping and praying that he won’t meet another dead end as he twists through a labyrinth of tunnels splitting off into various directions. 

Left. 

Left.

Right.

Straight. 

He can still hear the men following closely behind him and they seem to be only getting closer. Thinking fast, Stephen spots some narrowly spaced stalagmites on the incoming left tunnel and veers sharply towards them, squeezing himself in between. It buys him only a couple of seconds as two of his pursuers manage to swerve around them.

He is losing hope. He can’t possibly fight two men with one incapacitated hand and he is slowly losing his speed. He needs another plan, something to stop those chasing him for good. 

And he hears it. 

The sound of gushing water. Possibly a river or a shallow pond but Stephen is too desperate to think about it too much. All he knows is that he shouldn’t let those masked men have him and he’d rather die by his own hands rather than be their sacrifice. 

He can’t help but be terrified of what he is about to do. The fear of the unknown shaking him to his core. 

But he can’t do anything about it. All he has to do is jump head first into it. 

He can see the cliff already and Stephen does not hesitate charging towards it, not slowing down as he sprints over to the cliff. He feels the nick of one of his chaser’s knives on the back of his neck just as he takes a leap feet first off the cliff edge. He only manages to send a hazy glance at two hunters quickly stopping on the ledge before he plunges straight into the freezing water. 

Everything is cold and dark and painful with a touch of blood in his mouth from where he accidentally bit the inside of his cheek. The current is strong but not enough to render him unable to kick his way to the surface of the water. It’s hard to breathe given how the cold water seems to suck the air from his lungs, his injured ribs feeling as though they’re going to collapse into his chest.

It is dark when Stephen breaks the surface, gasping in short, pained breaths. He needs to get ashore to dry up and rest. He needs to find a safe place to wait them out, somewhere he can try to light a fire - somewhere to warm up. 

His first attempts to get his bearings and find some kind of shore fail. His hand is growing numb, but that doesn’t stop the occassional sharp feeling of pain shooting through his hand when he stretches his fingers too much, or when the pressure of water catches the injured hand wrong. 

Regardless, he forces himself to paddle his way to the rocky edge, using his uninjured hand to pull himself out. It takes him a couple more tries but he manages to pull himself ashore, shivering as the cold air hits him so he bundles himself tighter in his drenched outfit. Once he reorients himself he moves forward, not trusting the lunatics to stay where they are. 

He needs to be somewhere safe and far away. 

The torch he stole from the man he pushed in the tunnels is long lost in the river so Stephen uses the walls to guide him, following the river as well because the water would have to go _ somewhere. _

He follows the sound of the river and as he walks on, the tunnel slowly lights up in green, the ceiling littered with something that glows bright like stars to guide him onward.

There is still beauty in every corner of the world.

Stephen then spots a hole at the end, large enough to fit a human and slips through, taking great care and keeping his senses alert at all costs and when he emerges into another area, he gasps loudly. 

It is a large cavern with a gigantic hole on the ceiling, letting in the sunlight into the area and highlighting a large monolith that stands tall in the middle. There is an unlit fire pit in front of it with silver pieces of trinkets neatly placed around it. 

Stephen shuffles closer to the monolith, spotting a set of words etched onto the front of the monolith and satisfying his curiousity, Stephen reaches out to trace the letters with his fingers and mouthing the words.

_ Gaze upon the face of the One who holds Mischief with Their name, _

_ Once a Spirit, now One with great power and heart cold as ice not aflame, _

_ Deep is the cut of his sharp tongue and no one is to blame. _

_ Over the signs of wine turning to water to an innocent man bumping into a tree, _

_ Foul those games are not, for it is formed with the intent of having glee. _

_ Crave not peace when they are around, _

_ Harken to the silence as well as the sound, _

_ Attend to the mischief that sees them crowned, _

_ Or in their presence will trouble abound, _

_ Seek the lies and perhaps the truth will be found. _

Words can hold very powerful meanings, he thinks as he steps back, turning back to the unlit fire pit. He should get a fire started to warm himself up and Stephen surveys the area for anything that can serve as kindling when he hears a soft whisper. Turning on his heel, his eyes widen at the sight of an emerald fire blazing on what was previously an empty pit. 

Entranced by the bizarre colour of the flame, Stephen approaches it, watching as the flame moves in an unnatural way. In a move that he might regret later on, he reaches out towards the flame, feeling it move along his arm, as if comforting him and he closes his eyes at the warmth, welcoming it as it crawls around his body, chasing away the chill that set in his bones. 

** _I found you._ **

At the sound of the unfamiliar voice, he opens his eyes, staring in surprise at the change of surroundings in front of him.

** _Or did you find me?_ **

The familiar golden hall. 

The golden statue of his god. 

The altar of the Temple of Fire. 

“_You look lost _,” the same voice from before speaks out from beside him and Stephen turns his head to see a man. 

Ebony hair that looks like it is in need of a good combing, dark bags under his eyes, cracked lips and an emaciated body. Stephen wonders how the man is still standing before the man looks at him, his sharp emerald eyes seem to pierce through him.

“_Answer me this. Why did you not call for your beloved god’s help? _”

Why didn’t he? Ever since Stephen came to the Temple, all he ever wanted was to serve his god. He wanted to please Him but when he was with the cultists, the last thing in his mind is to give his life to whatever their cause is.

Stephen straightens up, looking at the man straight in the eye. “Because I have a choice. I didn’t want to die in their hands. I wanted to survive,” Stephen takes a deep breath, looking away slightly. “While I am Lord Atrishoneus’ worshipper, I know that prayer alone cannot solve everything.”

There is silence between them and the man hums, walking forward to look closer to the statue, raising an eyebrow. "_ The proportions are wrong, _ " he glances pointedly down at the statue's crotch. " _ Especially that part. That one is considerably more satisfying in real life. _"

Stephen feels his face heat up. _ What in Atrishoneus’ name is that man talking about? _

But then the man turns back to him, smirking. “_ Concerning your answer to my question, I applaud you, _ ” he says before humming thoughtfully. “ _ It seems there may be more to you than just pretty eyes. _” 

Green mist suddenly surrounds them and Stephen tries to back up in alarm but the man is suddenly in front of him, holding him in place with just a hand on his shoulder. 

“_ Keep calm, sweet Firewalker. You’re safe now. _ ” The man paused for a brief moment, looking him over, “ _ Firewalker… they should really call you Watersplasher.” _ The green flames of the fire light up the man’s eyes, dancing there wildly as the man smirks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is quite a roller coaster but I hope you guys enjoyed the ride! Tell me what you think in the comments below and kudos are always appreciated~ 
> 
> This work has been beta'ed by [Foxglove_Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction)!
> 
> Header is made by [Maya](https://twitter.com/Nobel_Kween)!


	8. A Single Voice

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This work has been beta'ed by [Foxglove_Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction). Thank you so much, Luca! 💙

* * *

* * *

I remember that event so clearly it may as well have happened the night before. It was at a celebratory ball for Lord Markis, and I was honoured to be part of the entertainment for the evening. There were more noble families in attendance but the star of the event was Lord Markis himself, the fabulously wealthy, self-titled “King of the Gods”. 

It was well into the evening that the terror began. We had finished two rounds of musical intermission and taken a break to fetch a tank of mead when Lord Markis gathered everyone’s attention to the centre of the room, where he was holding up a large goblet of wine. 

I was not able to hear his words but they must have been very insulting for the following to happen:

The lanterns began to illuminate the room with a green hue, unremarked by the others but clear as day to me.

Then rodents began to emerge from the refreshments table, crawling out of the food in grotesque ways that caused horror to the various onlookers. Shocked gasps and screams from both men and women alike could be heard as they all moved away from the table. I saw some dropping their goblets and tankards, its dark red liquid contents spilling everywhere. 

There was chaos…

And there was nothing that we could do.

\-- _ An excerpt from “ _ ** _A Short Encounter of Chaos by Unknown_ ** _ ” _

* * *

_ It is a good dream at first. _

_ He is in their garden, enjoying the comforting sounds of nature while sitting down on the grass underneath a large oak tree. He is blessed by the lovely sight of his beloved peacefully lying down on a soft bed of grass with his head propped up on his thigh. He hums softly, a tune that is familiar to his ears though what the song itself is seems to escape him. _

_ In a blink of an eye, he can no longer hear the rustling of the trees nor singing of the birds. The sky slowly grows dark as the tune that his lover is humming stops and the warmth on his lap disappears. Then by some unseen force, his arms are jerked backwards and his back is slammed against the trunk. _

_ Something holds him against the tree as he tries to twist away, but even with his godly strength, he cannot escape. He tries to shout for help but his mouth is forced shut, the familiar damned thread once again weaving between his lips and preventing him from making any more sound- _

Loki wretches his eyes open, gasping as he sits up abruptly. There is a phantom sensation of pain around his lips and he unconsciously lifts his hand up to reassure himself that it's gone now. 

The threads are gone.

_ He can speak. _

That god is not around anymore. 

He feels the body next to him shift, then there is a warm hand around his waist. A soft kiss on his shoulder. 

"My love?" He hears him whisper. 

He tries to answer him but his voice fails him, letting out only a choked sob, prompting his lover to shift closer to him and gently wrap his arms around, surrounding him with warmth and safety. 

"He is gone now. You are safe."

Loki looks at him and the soft amber eyes that seem to glow in the darkness, reassuring him more as Tony leans forward and presses soft kisses on Loki's skin, just where the wounds had been and Loki feels his fears slowly melt away.

**He is safe.**

He clings tightly to Tony, pushing the other man back onto their bed in the process. He presses himself as close as possible to him, tucking his face into Tony’s neck.

“I love you,” he whispers into Tony’s skin and his lover hums, his own arms around Loki’s waist securely. 

“I love you as well, Loki.” 

They stay like that for quite some time with Tony gently running his hand up and down his back in a soothing motion and Loki murmuring random tales into his lover’s neck. He can’t stop himself from doing so, wanting to reassure himself that he can still talk. 

It is not long before the exhaustion that he feels after the nightmare takes its own toll on his mind and body and he finds himself succumbing into a dreamless sleep, content to be in his lover’s protective arms. 

* * *

Two days had passed since his unexpected nightmare and Loki finds himself in the vast library in their home. He is in the middle of searching for accounts about the Temple of Fire, something that might be able to help in their investigation. Being bonded to the god of fire, he is at least a bit curious as to what exactly is happening in the temple, especially regarding the so-called High Priest.

_ Mortals are so strange, _ he thinks quietly as he remembers his conversation with the High Priestess Alys nights ago.

_ "Kaecilius is- _ ** _was_ ** _ \- a very good priest," she says, brushing her hand across her lap. "But as the years go by, he changes slowly. _

_ “When we were both in the Temple of Fire and I was visiting the temple with some of my disciples, he told me that he found some notes from the previous High Priests and would conduct rituals in the notes in the name of our God. I feel guilty for not being able to stop him.” _

_ “What kind of rituals?” Loki asks and Alys shrugs. _

_ "Power can get into someone's head and fog their mind," Loki tells her. “There was nothing that you could have done, Alys.” _

_ "I fear that there is more than what is on the surface, Lord Lopter." _

_ The plot thickens, _ he thinks to himself as he pauses in his attempt of pulling out a journal from one of the shelves and it was then that he hears someone call out his name. 

"Loki!"

Now, there are only three beings who know his true name and one of them is currently in his forge. Judging by the boisterous tone, Loki can only sigh and look up to find Donar (or Thor, the name he insists Loki and Tony call him because '_ we're family!' _) dressed in his usual silver and blue attire and his blonde hair is surprisingly neat, braided back to show off his face and blue eyes. He is grinning at Loki, looking quite proud that he managed to sneak up on him. 

"How did you get in here?" Loki asks and Thor grins, scratching his head idly. 

"Your beloved, of course!"

Tony allowing someone into their home is a very rare occurrence since Tony rarely likes having visitors and prefers the quiet (and the occasional sight of Loki himself strutting around with little to no clothing in an easy effort to entice him into numerous passionate moments) while Loki never minded it, preferring to spend his own time with Tony during the time when he is not fulfilling his godly duties. 

Now, for Tony to allow _ Thor _ into their home _ ... _

Loki sighs fondly at Tony's attempts to cheer him up after his nightmare nights before even though it is no longer necessary still, he sends a wave of affection in their bond and feels his lover's own fondness answering him. 

"-felt a storm about to arrive in the vicinity so I also came to check up on the fallen ones in the east but they seemed to have lessened in number so quickly-"

Loki looks at Thor properly, narrowing his eyes. "The fallen?"

"The fallen ones are disappearing," Thor taps his finger against his chin in thought, "near the Temple of Fire. I feel like there is something strange going on there."

"You did not need to tell me that," Loki sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Tony and I were investigating the subject as well. We think that there is something abominable happening in the depths of the Temple."

"Should you even be interfering on the mortals' affairs?" 

Loki huffs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "We are gods, Thor. There is nothing we can do that will be considered-"

His sentence cuts off as he suddenly feels his chest tightening up like a vice around his heart. He lets out a whimper, pressing his hand against his chest in an attempt to alleviate the pain. Fire seems to run through his veins before he gasps, scratching at his skin as Thor tries to pull his hands away from his skin. 

"Something is wrong."

Loki then feels the pounding in his head, from nothing to excruciating pain in the span of a few seconds, spikes of pain intensifying and his hands clutch at his head, and he cannot see Thor anymore, though he’s sure his eyes were open. It feels like his head is being sawed in half, as if his brains are about to explode and come pouring out of his forehead if he does not hold it in. All he can focus on now is how his head and heart is going to burst. 

And he feels something warm in his throat, something coppery and warm and he barely hears his own hacking cough as something thick and wet splatters over his chin. He barely hears Thor, his voice muffled through his pain as he tries calling for someone before his world goes black. 

He wakes up in the bedroom with pillows surrounding him. His body feels a little stiff with aching limbs that feel like they’re resting on hot coals. His insides feel like a mess. Something feels so wrong but Loki, in his current muddled mind and aching head, cannot figure out what it is at the moment. 

“Loki?” He hears a familiar voice whisper his name and he turns his head to see Tony sitting on a chair beside their bed, his complexion a bit pale. He must have moved closer when he felt Loki’s consciousness resurfacing but he looks so heartbroken, his hands lifting up to touch him but hesitates so Loki takes the initiative to reach out and link their fingers together. 

"Have I worried you, my sweet?" Loki whispers, his voice raspy.

Tony leans his head down, kissing Loki's knuckles gently. "I still am, Love."

"How long?" 

"Almost three days," he tells him and Loki, despite the protesting of his aching limbs, moves some of the pillows surrounding him and pulls his lover closer. Tony follows, sitting in the space Loki cleared out, his free hand gently caressing his hair in an attempt to soothe his aching head. 

“Bytruces came over last night to give some of his healing balms,” Tony tells him quietly. “I… I was panicking. You wouldn’t wake up.”

Loki reaches up with his free hand to brush his fingers along Tony’s cheek in reassurance. It is very rare for Loki to actually fall ill so he knows that stress that his lover must have been. “I am sorry, my love."

Tony takes a deep breath, leaning forward to brush his lips against Loki's forehead. "There is no need to be sorry, Loki."

The rest of his day is spent like this, with him in Tony's arms as his lover tells his stories about what he has seen in the mortal world while Loki is in his deep sleep. He tells him of Thor's own worries and even implored the god Bytruces to check on Loki every day but Tony reassured them both that the balm is enough and that he will send a messenger if Loki's condition gets worse. 

"He was being noisy," Tony huffs as Loki chuckles at the sight. "It is a good thing that Bytruces managed to get him in line."

It is well into the evening and Tony lies beside him, his soft breaths indicating that he is very much in deep slumber. Loki himself is not asleep, content to watch his lover sleep but cannot find his own peace for now. 

There is one place aside from their home where he can gather his thoughts without worrying his lover. 

He leans forward, kissing Tony’s forehead lovingly before moving off the bed, stretching his limbs to ease the slight ache still resting on his bones. He dresses in a loose black robe and makes sure that he is at least presentable before reaching for the familiar threads of space that will take him to where he wants to go.

* * *

The area is void of any landmarks to whoever might chance upon the location. Some would think that it is a cursed place, filled with disturbing wraiths that scream and shout to those unfortunate enough to enter the area. 

However for him? Ghosts make good companions in moments of loneliness. 

He appeases them with a gift: a bottle of spirits and a white ceramic cup filled halfway with the alcohol and set down onto a stone with four chrysanthemums: one for each cardinal direction.

There is a gentle breeze that passes by him, a whisper of gratitude and appreciation before it disappears along with the bottle with the cup turning up empty and with that, Loki can finally move on.

He proceeds further into the area and sees a hooded figure sitting down on a wooden chair, sharpening a huge greatsword with a grinding wheel with golden sparks flying off the blade. 

The Guardian, a being who tends to the lost souls that make their way to the mortal world and halfway down to the underworld and most importantly, the one who guards the only grave in the world that matters to him. 

At his approach, the figure stops their movements, tilting their head slightly to the side. It is then that he hears a rumbling deep voice in his head:

‘** _What begins and has no end but ends all that begins?_ **’

“Death,” Loki says out loud and he watches the figure stand up from their seat, pulling back their hood to reveal an almost gigantic man with pure white eyes, a large gaping mouth and long dark hair that reaches to his knees in a messy way. He wears a simple black robe that drapes across his form in an unflattering way and covers his bare feet. He lifts his sword easily and sets it onto the ground with his hands loosely wrapped around the hilt. 

“** _Greetings, God of Chaos,_ ** ” he bows in acknowledgement, his mouth not moving while he talks. “ ** _I see that you have returned after a long time to chase long gone spirits. Even in such a state._ **"

"Only one," Loki tells him. 

“** _Of course,_ ** ” the Guardian says before turning his head to the side as if he is listening to something. “ ** _I am being called upon,_ **” he tells him and Loki nods.

“I will not keep you, then.”

The Guardian bows once again, his features slowly shifting. He grows smaller, almost to the size of a tall man. His ever-gaping mouth closes as he spins his sword, shifting into a scythe that he wields to his side and a pair of black wings grow out from his back, stretching out its wide span before the Guardian steps back into an unseen ripple and disappears before his eyes. 

Loki takes a deep breath before continuing on his walk to his destination. He sees the familiar ivory sculpture of a man, garbed in simple robes with his hands outstretched. In one hand, a blue butterfly lands, flapping its wings slowly as it looks like it is peering at Loki. 

Seeing his old friend, or at least what was left of him makes Loki’s heart hurt and he slowly sinks down onto the ground on his knees, looking at the statue quietly. 

_ He was young back then, a two and a half century-old youngling that is still learning the meaning of being a god. He had just finished his usual chaotic meddling in some mortal lord's banquet and went to visit his precious friend and mentor in the sacred halls of judgement and this day is just like any other. _

_ He sees his friend in his usual simple white robes, an ivory and gold mask set firmly over his eyes but Loki has no doubt that he can see everything clearly. _

_ “Happy birthday,” he greets him as soon as Loki steps into the sacred hall and he raises his eyebrow at the man. _

_ “What?” _

_ The man smiled serenely and approached him with his hands tucked into his sleeves. “Mortals celebrate the day of their birth. I find this tradition quite amusing.” _

_ “Best you say that greeting to my brother then,” Loki scoffed. “He loves mortals even more than the great illustrious Saint.” _

_ "You would be surprised - mortals can be quite interesting." _

_ He watches as the man - the Saint’s smile widens and he pulled his arm away from his sleeve and offered him a wrapped present. Loki looks at the Saint strangely but the man only tilts his head and with a sigh, Loki takes it from him, unwrapping it to find a journal, covered by thick leather to protect it from the elements, its spine embellished with golden swirls and a leather strap kept it closed. _

_ Loki’s mouth had dropped at the sight of the simple yet thoughtful gift, running his finger over the golden decorations in awe before looking up at the Saint. _

_ “I made it for you,” the Saint told him. “I thought that you would like something to write on when the situation calls for it.” _

_ “And what situation would that be?” Loki narrowed his eyes at him but the Saint merely hums in thought. _

_ “Perhaps when you feel alone. You can use it. Treat it like you are talking to me.” _

_ “Maybe I wouldn’t use it then,” Loki tells him playfully and the Saint seems to be in a teasing mood as well since he reaches out to take the journal from him but Loki draws the journal closer, hugging it to his body. _

_ The Saint chuckles, tucking his hands back into his sleeves and Loki smiles. _

_ “Thank you,” he tells him sincerely. “But I do not think that I would be using it to talk to you. You’re here in front of me.” _

_ “Such faith in me,” the Saint hums lightly and Loki beams. “You believe that I will always be by your side?” _

_ “For all eternity,” Loki moves closer to the Saint, still hugging his journal. _

_ “Of course.” _

“Of course you did not,” Loki could not stop the venom hissing out from his mouth but he bows his head, taking a deep breath to calm himself. “I am sorry.”

Silence. 

There will only be silence to answer him. 

It will always drive him mad, the urge to speak a temptation that he can never deny after what he experienced. 

So he talks.

“I cannot fault you for doing something that you set your mind to,” he whispers. “But sometimes, in my darkest hours, I foolishly wish that you were still here with me.

“My heart, my love is with Tony. The one you gave your life to. I just wish that you could have seen him.”

Loki smiles, the thought of his lover making him feel warm and content. It is a comfortable subject, one that he knows his old friend would love to know about but before he could talk further, he feels a tug in his mind and the quiet whisper catching his attention.

_ ‘Crave not peace when they are around, _

_ Harken to the silence as well as the sound, _

_ Attend to the mischief that sees them crowned, _

_ Or in their presence will trouble abound, _

_ Seek the lies and perhaps the truth will be found.’ _

It is part of a poem dedicated to him, the god of Chaos. Carved by one of his followers in a monolith hidden within his mountain, one of his worshipper's pilgrimage sites. 

Loki stands up as the blue butterfly that was resting on the Saint's memorial disappears as if it was mere dust blowing through the wind and he stands up.

He should check on the voice that calls out to him. 

With that, he sends one last glance at the Saint before he travels through space once again, taking the form of an emerald flame when he reaches his destination. 

To his surprise, he is met with the sight of the pretty priest, the very same one who captured his beloved's attention. His shoulders are slumped with weariness and his breathing raspy and unsteady like he sustained some injuries on his ribcage. 

'Poor darling,' Loki coos quietly almost to himself as the priest turns around and notices him. Loki moves, beckoning the priest to come closer and the man shuffles forward, reaching out to him. 

Loki splits his flame form, letting the priest comfort himself with the warmth that he gives off and when he sees the man's eyes close, he sends a spark of magic that shifts the entire cavern into the familiar main hall of the Temple of Fire. 

He changes back to his form, however haggard he may look in the eyes of the man. His continuous use of magic already slightly wearing him down so he must return home soon. 

"I found you," he tells the man, who opens his eyes and stares in surprise at his surroundings, his mouth agape. "Or did you find me? You look lost."

The man whirls around to face him, his blue eyes wide and openly staring. His uninjured hand unconsciously lifting up to hold onto the other protectively and Loki narrows his eyes slightly. 

“Answer me this. Why did you not call for your beloved god’s help?"

He watches the priest shift on his feet, lost in thought of what to answer but before Loki could repeat his question, the priest straightens up, looking at him straight in the eye. “Because I have a choice. I didn’t want to die in their hands. I wanted to survive. While I am Lord Atrishoneus’ worshipper, I know that prayer alone cannot solve everything.”

_ An admirable answer _. 

Loki tilts his head curiously and in his mind, he recalls how his old friend spoke of interesting mortals and Loki finds himself humming. 

He is used to mortals begging and crying for mercy and blessing but this one… he may not know it but Loki can see amidst the hurt and pain that the man must be experiencing, there is a burning flame inside him. 

Very interesting.

His eyes spot the statue that depicts his lover and he moves closer, raising an eyebrow. No matter how many times he sees this, he can never help but comment about how the statue's proportions are not quite like what it is in real life and much to his amusement, he can feel the priest's embarrassment at his words. To spare the priest from further teasing, he turns around to look at him once again. 

"It seems there may be more to you than just pretty eyes," he tells him before deciding he should bring the man to their home. He may actually have the answer to the secrets of the Temple of Fire after all. 

Taking the man's shoulder to hold him down, he phases through space once again with his passenger. He feels the man's consciousness drop the moment they arrive in the spare bedroom of their abode and carefully places him on the bed. 

Summoning the balm that was used to ease his own pain, Loki swipes a small amount of the cream on the priest's hand, allowing the magic to mend the internal injuries. The man winces in his sleep, his eyes fluttering but Loki quickly presses his hand on his forehead, sending a spark of his magic to lull him back to sleep. 

"Loki," he hears Tony's voice calling out for him and he turns his head to see his lover enter the room, a frown set on his handsome face. 

"We have a guest," Loki tells him and the frown deepens as Tony marches forward to take a look at their 'visitor' and practically freezes. 

"That is Stephen," he says quietly, his brow furrowed in confusion and Loki nods, turning back to his patient, whose breathing finally calms down. 

"I found him in the mountain," Loki continues to explain, putting the balm aside as he sits on the bed beside the priest. He can already feel the weariness setting into his bones once again so he reaches out to Tony, who takes his hand steadily. 

He feels Tony's own magic flowing into him, helping his magic realign itself and recover faster. He smiles warmly at Tony as his golden eyes looking at Loki, then to the priest and back to Loki. He can feel Tony's worry seeping through their bond so he reassures him quietly, gripping his hand tight. 

"We'll be okay, darling," he glances at the priest, who is sleeping peacefully now. "He just needs some rest."

They will have more time to acquaint themselves with the mortal priest but for now, Loki thinks that the man deserves some sleep after everything that he may have been through. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well! That was uh... an ouchy chapter! Questions, questions~
> 
> Tell me what you think! Thank you for reading! 💙
> 
> ** Edit: ** Header is made by [Maya](https://twitter.com/Nobel_Kween)!

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Path of Blood](https://archiveofourown.org/works/20186998) by [Foxglove_Fiction](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Foxglove_Fiction/pseuds/Foxglove_Fiction)


End file.
